


Innocence

by lanri



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Gen, Hurt Sam, Hurt/Comfort, Mary Winchester Lives, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2015-04-13
Packaged: 2018-03-13 02:58:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 34,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3365192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lanri/pseuds/lanri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mary had made her choices. She only hoped that her sons wouldn’t have to pay the price. AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Mary didn’t realize she had stopped breathing until Sam said something.

“Mom? Are you okay?”

Mary let the paper fall to the table, folding her scarred and calloused hands in her lap, to keep Sam from seeing the trembling.

“Bit of bad news,” she said. “Don’t worry about it, Sam.”

Her son slid into the motel’s other cheap chair, the plastic creaking as he sat. “Mom,” he said warningly. “Last time you lied to me, I had to come in and save you from a pack of werewolves. Are we doing this again?”

Mary sighed, dropping her head into her hands. “Sammy, I don’t know about this one.”

Her son’s sigh forced her to look up, face him straight on. “Mom,” he said softly.

“Your father,” Mary said jerkily. “It’s . . . news. About him.”

She hadn’t told Sam much about his father. Just that she had left him to keep him safe. Consequently, Sam was always egging her on, trying to get her to give up some information about his other parent. “What about him?” Sam asked eagerly. “Are we going to see him?”

Mary shook her head. “I’m sorry, Sam,” she whispered. “He’s dead.”

Sam’s face went blank. “Dead?”

It hit Mary all over again. Some type of pain—like being stabbed by a knife—twisted inside her gut. She bit back a sob, her teeth sinking into her lower lip hard enough to bleed.

“I’m sorry, Mom.” Sam got up from his chair, lanky arms encircling her. Mary clung to him, allowing herself for a moment to grieve.

“I’m sorry you never got to meet him,” she murmured. “It wasn’t right.”

Sam drew back. “I understand,” he said. “We had to protect him.”

Mary tried to smile, but only managed to pull one edge of her mouth up. “I suppose so. Seems like I failed.”

“How’d he die?” Sam narrowed his eyes. “Was it supernatural?”

“I don’t know,” Mary admitted.

Sam stood. “So we go and see,” he declared. A second later, and he retreated a little. “Unless . . . it’d be too . . . um—“

“Painful?” Mary finished for him. “Yes, I suppose it would be. I’ve had my guts spilled, Sammy, trust me, I’ll be fine.”

Sam vaulted across the motel bed, snagging his duffel. “Impala gassed up?”

“Not you.”

Sam froze, and then turned. “What?”

If Sam had any fault, it was his impetuousness. Just like John. Mary pushed past the bite of pain and straightened. “I’ll go myself.”

“Why?” he demanded.

His propensity for questions, however, came from Mary.

“Sam, you know that you’ve always been in danger,” she explained. “If you return to Lawrence, who knows if it will trip some kind of booby trap.”

Sam’s eyes lit up. “Lawrence?”

Mary swore to herself and turned to do her own packing. “You aren’t coming,” she said. “That’s final.”

The sullen silence that met her declaration was a painful return to Sam’s early teenage years. Mary sighed, letting her hands rest on her favorite shotgun.

“I’ll be back in two days,” she said softly. “Your job at the grocery store earns you enough to get food?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. I’ll see you soon.” She zipped up her bag—it paid to be ready to flee at a moment’s notice—and turned to face Sam. “We’ll talk, after this,” she said, inadequately. “I promise.”

Sam’s poker face gave away nothing—Mary had taught him too well. She hugged him briefly and turned away before her sentimentality got the best of her.

She had a funeral to crash.

* * *

Sam grumbled to himself. Mom always done his ties—he had never figured out how to do it himself. The funeral was about to start, and Sam needed to get inside now or he would be noticed by his mother. She had an uncanny way of knowing exactly where he was at all times, and she would be pissed with him for sneaking after her.

“Darn it.” The knot was askew again.

“Dude, you okay?”

Sam looked up, annoyed at himself for not paying attention to his surroundings. “Yeah,” he muttered.

“Want a hand?”

The guy looked only a couple years older than Sam; why would he be at a funeral for an older man like Sam’s father?

“That’s okay,” he replied.

“Seriously,” The guy flicked his own neat tie. “I’m a pro.”

Sam sighed. “Fine. It’s just . . . um, yeah. Never figured out how to do these things. It’s awkward.”

The man handled Sam’s tie expertly. “Yeah, that’s how it goes. Everything about funerals is awkward.”

The hands around his throat made Sam want to lash out. He swallowed, tilting his chin the other direction. “How did you know the deceased?” he asked.

For a moment, the guy’s hands paused. “I could ask you the same question,” he returned smoothly.

“My mom knew him.”

“In the Marines?”

Sam blinked. His father had been in the military? “Yeah,” he lied.

“There you go.” The man stepped away, offering a half-smile. “We better get in there.”

Sam nodded, easing his hand off his concealed knife; someone’s hand around his throat made it necessary to be ready. “Thanks,” he said.

“No problem.”

Sam slunk to the side as soon as they entered, catching sight of his mother’s curling blonde hair in the middle of the room. Thankfully, the guy didn’t follow, and Sam sat down by himself in the back row.

The preacher stood up and started off with his piece. John Winchester’s casket was open in the front—Sam would have to wait for the end, and for his mom to leave.

“And now, his son Dean will say a few words.”

Sam jerked his head up, staring at the pulpit area. Had John remarried? Or been married before he married his mother?

“If my dad were here today, he’d be rolling his eyes at all of this.” The guy who had fixed Sam’s tie leaned against the pulpit, a wry smile on his lips. “Honestly, if you know—“ Sam caught the minute flinch that was hidden a second later with a tilt of the head “—knew him, you’re probably surprised we’re even holding this thing. But getting to see all of you, and knowing the place my dad made in your lives, it means a lot to me. So thank you. And Dad—“ he turned to the coffin. “—I’m gonna miss you.”

There was a polite silence as the guy sat down. Sam glanced over at his mother, but the back of her head told him nothing.

The funeral was short and respectful, as a couple more people stood and told memories of John, or talked about his accomplishments. Sam mostly kept his gaze focused on his mom, glancing every now and then at John’s son. When the funeral finished and his mother stood, he ducked down, waiting until she walked out before casually ambling up to the front.

John, according to what Sam had heard, had died of a heart attack. The peacefulness of his expression showed nothing of a violent end, as far as Sam could tell.

“Did you really think you could sneak past me?”

His mom’s sardonic tone made Sam’s shoulders drop. He turned to face her. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

She sighed, deeply. Sam glanced through his bangs at her and saw her smile a little. “I should’ve known better,” she said. “You did inherit my stubbornness.”

Sam glanced back at the corpse. The strong features that he didn’t see in himself at all. “Are you okay, Mom?”

“No,” she said honestly. “But I will be.”

Sam wrapped an arm around her, feeling his mother lean slightly into the embrace.

“Are you two coming to the reception?”

John’s son was watching them curiously. Sam hadn’t heard him coming up behind them. He really had to work on his environmental awareness.

“I don’t think we can make it,” Sam responded politely. His mom said nothing, and he glanced at her curiously.

“Are you okay?” she asked the guy, almost abruptly.

The flicker of pain that Sam had noticed before was back and then disappeared. “I’m fine. Lots of paperwork to be done, but that can’t be helped.”

Sam’s mom nodded, slowly, and he could feel her trembling, a little. “Mom?” he whispered. “Are you okay?”

The guy moved forward. “You’re looking a little pale,” he noted. “Why don’t you sit down?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Seriously, Mom. I haven’t seen you like this since—“

“Dean, are you coming?” An older woman approached and stood next to Dean, putting her hands on her hips, dark skin crinkling around her eyes. “No getting out of talking to everyone, kiddo, you know that.”

“I’m coming, Missouri.”

Sam caught how his mother’s eyes sharpened at the name.

In that same moment, the woman named Missouri took a step towards them. Sam’s hand went to his knife.

“You folks okay?” Missouri asked neutrally.

“We’re fine,” Sam echoed his mother from before. “We’ll be going, now.”

“Dean,” his mother murmured.

John’s son looked surprised to be noticed again. “Yes, ma’am?”

“Do you have any other family?”

Small talk? Now? Sam wanted to drag his mother out of this tense web of interactions that he didn’t understand before he started cutting some people.

The guy’s smile was small and sad. “Just me, now.”

“What about your mother?”

Sam blinked, thrown. Dean looked thrown as well, before his face darkened.

“My mother ran off years ago, abandoning my dad,” he told her coldly. “I want nothing to do with her.”

Sam felt his mother cringe away from Dean in his arms. And he understood, suddenly, and horribly. This man in front of him was Mary’s son. Well, other son.

As soon as the shock passed, anger surged up to replace it.

“Don’t speak like that,” he said.

“Dean . . .” Missouri murmured.

Dean ignored her and focused in on Sam. “You don’t know me, kid,” he growled. “And I’ll say what I want about that bitch.”

Sam punched him.

* * *

Dean had been having a rather crappy day.

Never mind the fact that his dad was dead and had left Dean with nothing. Giving a speech in front of a bunch of his dad’s old crony’s hadn’t been great either, and Dean hated wearing a suit.

Getting punched in the face, though, had been a surprise.

“What the—“

“You watch your mouth,” the kid snarled at him.

Dean bristled. “You come to my dad’s funeral and—“

“Dean,“ Missouri murmured.

“Not now, Missouri.”

A new voice interrupted them. “You look just like your father.”

Dean had almost forgotten about the woman—presumably, the kid’s mother. He spared her a glance, keeping most of his attention on the floppy-haired boy. “Okay, lady, right now is obviously not a great time.”

“I am sorry to let you know this way,” she continued, “but there’s no good way to say this. I am your mother.”

The same shuddery feeling Dean had felt when the doctor told him his dad hadn’t made it passed through him again. The kid also seemed half-surprised, turning back to his mother.

“So he’s my—“

She nodded at him, turning back to face Dean. “Dean, when you were four, I left with Sam.”

Missouri started forward, her hand settling on Dean’s shoulder. “Sit down before you fall over,” she said kindly.

“I don’t understand.”

The blonde-haired woman—Dean’s mother?—stood. “I know this isn’t ideal. And I—I’m sorry for—“

“You left me,” Dean said, softly. “You left us. Why—“

The woman visibly shrank, eyes going dull. “I made choices to keep you safe,” she whispered. “I did what I had to do.”

Dean advanced on her. “Yeah? What kind of flimsy excuse is that?“

The kid stepped in Dean’s path. His hazel eyes were dark and protective. “That’s enough,” he growled.

“You’re one to talk. You’re the ones crashing my dad’s funeral for no reason.”

The woman made a soft sound. “He was my husband,” she said. “And you’re my son.”

Dean met her eyes—green like his—and said, “I’m not your son.”

She slumped back. The kid’s arm went around her, shielding her from Dean’s view. There was something near hate in his eyes.

“Oh, enough of this nonsense!” Missouri shoved the two of them apart, taking Dean’s arm. “Now, we have a reception to attend, and Dean you will be perfectly respectable for your father’s sake, and the two of you will . . .” Missouri’s voice trailed off. For the first time since Dean had known her, Missouri seemed uncertain.

“We’ll go,” the woman said. “We never should have come. I’m sorry.”

She strode out, leaving the kid staring at Dean, and then at the corpse behind him in the coffin. He seemed to be wavering between anger and sorrow.

“I am . . . sorry,” he bit out. “Goodbye.”

Dean sagged against Missouri’s arm as they left. Missouri was supposed to be psychic, though Dean had never been certain if she actually was. At the very least, she was perceptive. “Were they lying?” he asked.

“I know you don’t want to hear this,” Missouri told him, “but she wasn’t. Though that kid had no idea what was going on.”

Dean barked out a laugh that echoed through the church’s rafters. It was a hollow sound.

“Let it go for now,” Missouri suggested, “and we’ll talk about this later, okay?”

Dean nodded and steeled himself. He would get through this. Then he could figure out what the hell had just happened.


	2. Chapter 2

“You know I’ll want answers.”

Mary let her head hang, long hair hiding her face from Sam’s perceptive gaze. “Yes,” she said heavily. “I know.”

Her son settled against the hood next to her, the car groaning slightly at their combined weight. “You okay?”

“I will be.” Mary closed her eyes. “No supernatural cause. He died of heart attack. We should move on.”

“Yeah.” For a moment, Sam was silent, but if she knew her son, that wouldn’t last for long.

“Go on,” she prompted. “Better to get it over with.”

“So that guy was my brother? By blood?”

“Yes.” Sam always did like to get to the heart of things. Mary took a deep breath. “He was the firstborn. For a long time I feared that he was the price I would pay for making a deal for John’s life. Instead, it turned out that it was you when the demon came and gave you his blood.” She managed to meet her kid’s eye, for a moment. “You know the rest.”

“Why not take him with us?” Sam asked.

Mary shook her head. “I had already stolen myself and you. I had to give John something, someone, so that he was able to keep going. Your father is—was—intensely loyal to family. My betrayal left him with nearly nothing. I also hoped that Dean might be safe away from us.” Sam nodded, satisfied. Long ago, Mary had considered keeping everything a secret from Sam. She hadn’t, and it had been the right decision. She didn’t know what she would’ve done without his support in all of this. “Are you okay?” she checked.

Sam’s lips tilted upward. “Aren’t I always okay?” he returned.

“No lying to me, Sam Winchester,” she flicked him on the side of the head. “Can you tell me that you’ll be okay?”

Her son took a moment to reply.

“It might’ve been nice to know I had a brother.” Sam hitched his heels up on the bumper. “Might’ve helped with bullies, a couple times. He’s four years older than me?”

“Yeah.”

Sam nodded, staring at his jeans. “Probably would’ve been completely annoying. Things are probably best as they are.”

“I’m sorry they aren’t different.”

“And I told you that you need to stop apologizing about things you can’t control, Mom.”

“Old habits,” she murmured absently.

“Come on, let’s get packed up,” Sam heaved himself off the Impala, offering Mary a hand. “Can we order pizza before we go?”

“I swear, son, you’re a bottomless pit.”

He smiled at her, dimples and all. “With pepperoni?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Mary brushed her palms against her jeans as she hopped off the Impala’s hood. “I’ll get you ice cream after dinner if you’ll promise to not complain about my music for twenty-four hours.”

“Deal,” Sam called over his shoulder.

Mary turned, staring back at the city of Lawrence. She hadn’t wanted things to be this way; she had always tried to protect her family. Best laid plans, as it were.

“Mom, did you clean the knives after the werewolf hunt?”

“Yeah, but they need to be sharpened,” she responded.

“I got it.”

Mary smiled. She had Sam, and that made it all worth it.

* * *

“I’m starving,” Sam said dramatically.

“Pizza will be here any minute.”

Sam set down the knife he had been sharpening. “Do you ever regret it?” he blurted out.

“What?” His mother’s head jerked up, and she stared at Sam. “Regret what?”

Sam’s lips twisted without his permission. “Choosing me?” He stared at the moldy carpet and shook his head. “Never mind. I know what you’ll say.”

“Sam . . .”

There was a knock on the door. “Pizza!” Sam stood, an easy distraction from their conversation. He flung open the door and froze. The man—John’s son—stood before him.

“Wha—“

“We need to talk.”

The guy barged into the room. Sam kept his hand on his gun, nodding to his mom.

“Dean,” she said. For once, she appeared to be unsure. “You’re . . . what are you doing here?”

The guy sat down on Sam’s bed, looking for all the world as if he was comfortable, even though his back was completely exposed to Sam. Sam could shoot him easily. He said, “seeing as you barged into my father’s funeral without so much as a warning, I thought I’d return the favor. Why were you there?”

She settled on the bed across from him. Sam closed the motel door, leaning against it and keeping an eye on the man. “Leaving you was the hardest thing I’d ever done,” his mom told him. “Leaving your father was also painful. I couldn’t . . . I didn’t want to, but I had no other choice.”

“Yeah? Why?” he asked.

Sam shifted, catching his mother’s eye and shaking his head.

“Someone from my past wanted to hurt me,” she said carefully. “Staying would have put you and your father in danger.”

The guy twisted around to look at Sam. “And you?” he demanded.

“Maybe she just liked me more,” Sam said drily, “ever think of that?”

His face became shuttered.

“The—“ His mother’s voice hesitated, “—people knew about Sam and were going to use him as leverage.”

“And you expect me to believe this?”

“Believe it or not, it’s up to you,” Sam growled. “What are you really here for?”

“Come on, brother. Don’t you want a nice family reunion?”

Sam bristled.

“Boys,” Mary intervened. “Sam, would you mind giving me a few minutes with Dean?”

Sam narrowed his eyes at Dean. “Fine,” he bit out. “Let me know if the supplier calls.” Or, in other words, if she was in trouble.

“Okay, Sam.”

Sam exited without another look at his so-called sibling. He waited ten minutes outside the door, pager in his hand (his mother could press one button and it would beep if she needed him) until the guy walked out the door again. His eyes landed on Sam.

“It was nice meeting you.” The lie was evident in his voice.

“Sure,” Sam returned levelly. “Have a nice life.”

He entered the motel room before Dean could say anything more, finding his mother calmly packing her bag.

“We good?” Sam asked.

“Yeah. He won’t call the cops on us, at least.” There was a flash of humor in his mother’s bright eyes, and Sam felt his worry slide away like oil. As long as his mom was relaxed, Sam could let his guard down.

“Wanna head out?” he asked.

His mom nodded. “Bobby pointed me to a hunt in Kansas.”

“I swear that man has a crush on you,” Sam grumbled.

“Watch it, boy.”

There was a knock on the door. Sam looked to his mother, first. “I don’t care what he wants, I’m punching him in the face if he tries to ask any more questions,” he said. He flung the door open, barking out, “what!?”

“Pizza?” The guy timidly held out the box. Sam relaxed, shaking his head at himself.

“Yeah, man, sorry.” He passed over the money—with an extra tip—and shut the door with a groan. “I’m ready to get out of here,” he announced.

“I hear you.” Mary threw him his bag, making Sam nearly drop his pizza.

“Hey!”

“Stop your whining. I’ll drive.”

Sam groaned, slouching his way over to the Impala, pizza and bag in hand. “You drive too fast,” he complained.

“I’m not a grandma about driving like you,” she shot back.

“Can I pick the music at least? Metallica makes my ears hurt.”

“You’ve complained about the music all your life,” his mother said. “One of these days I will convert you.”

“Keep dreaming.” Sam slid into the passenger seat, opening up his pizza. “What’d you two talk about?”

“Subtle change of topics, Sam,” his mother rolled her eyes. “I tried to convince him I wasn’t lying. He blew me off. Probably hates me.”

Sam heard the underlying pain in his mother’s voice. She wouldn’t meet his eyes, focusing on the parking lot as she reversed the Impala. “No one can hate you, Mom. You’re too awesome.”

He got a quirked smile. “Thanks, kiddo.”

Sam bit into his pizza. “S’what I’m here for,” he said through his mouthful of food.

His mom groaned. “How many times do I have to tell you to close your mouth when you eat?”

Sam grinned. “Couple hundred times more.”

* * *

Dean didn’t fancy himself a guy who took risks. He had worked in his dad’s shop until he graduated high school, and then gone to college for engineering. He worked with his hands and his brain, he got the job done, and he stuck to what he knew.

Following his supposed-mother and supposed-brother was a bit of a departure from Dean’s sure-fire plans and solid way of living.

The distinctive black Impala stood out, while Dean’s neutral Toyota blended in to other cars on the highway—he hoped. The long drive ended an hour later at . . . another motel. A halfway point? Dean parked two buildings over, at a suspicious looking tobacco store.

“What am I doing?” he muttered to himself.

And still, he went through with it. He tailed the kid to the library, and then branched off to find Mary at the local gun store, which was weird. Dean waited until she left before darting inside.

“May I help you?”

Dean offered his most ingenuous smile. “Hi, the woman who just left? I wanted to get her a gift, and I was wondering what she was looking at in here.”

The stocky man frowned a little. “She wasn’t looking, she was buying ammo. Not exactly gift material.”

“Ah.” Dean absorbed the new information. “Well, what kind of gun did she have? Maybe I could get her a holster?”

“Look, sir, she didn’t bring in a gun, just bought the ammo she needed. You want to get her a gift, you’re gonna have to man up and ask her yourself.”

Dean rubbed the back of his neck. “Right. Got it.” He made his awkward escape, breathing in the rain-heavy air. What was he even doing?

Unable to find them again, Dean was forced to wait back at their motel until they showed up, the kid eagerly chatting to his mother, showing him some pages while she carried something in a bag.

Dean, sitting in the backseat of his car, got out as soon as they entered the motel, running behind it to their room’s back window.

To Dean’s surprise and relief, the window was cracked.

“I’m pretty sure you’re right, but we should take some silver just in case.”

“Mom, we always take silver. Duh.” Sam passed by the window and Dean jerked back, pressing against the brick and gulping in some air. A far droplet of water hit his face; Dean swore to himself. Spying would only be made more difficult by some rain.

“Good thing it’s a shallow grave, eh?” he heard Sam’s voice again.

“You have the shotguns packed in the waterproof duffel?”

“Whoops.”

“I swear, Sam, where is your head sometimes?” Her voice . . . sometimes, Dean thought he remembered his mother singing him to sleep, and it rang eerily close.

“Let’s get this over with.”

Dean peeked through the window and saw Sam pulling on his boots. Dean made it around the building and back into his car by the time they left the room. Following them was a little more difficult as the rain fell, but Dean managed to do it by hiding in the shadow of a semi and then trailing a decent distance behind. They turned in at a local graveyard, and Dean was forced to pass, park, and then jog back on foot.

“Mom, what was his name?”

“Victor,” was called back

“Give a person such an evil sounding name, and he’s bound to turn into an restless spirit,” Sam—standing closer to Dean’s cover by a large oak—muttered to himself.

“Found him!” The two of them coalesced on one gravestone.

“Man, this is gonna suck,” Sam said feelingly. He shook his rain-soaked hair out of his face.

“You said it, kiddo.”

To Dean’s shock, they began shoveling away the dirt over the grave. His biological mother and brother were grave robbers?

“You’ve been quiet all day,” Mary observed to Sam.

Sam grunted, throwing a clod of dirt over his shoulder.

“If this is about your father—“ she started.

Sam made a sound of disgust. “Mom, I didn’t even know the guy. Honestly, I’ve mostly been thinking about the database.”

“You are such a geek.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.” Mary grinned at Sam, a smudge of dirt across her cheek. “Next time we settle in for a long hunt, you’re taking some college classes.”

Sam groaned. “Mom, we talked about this.”

“Just saying,” she said innocently.

Dean leaned against his gravestone and hiding place, a weird nausea in his gut and a strange wistfulness pulling at him. For years he had pretended his mother was out there, waiting for him; here she was and she was wonderful, but not for Dean.

“Yahtzee!” Sam crowed.

The crunch of wood made Dean wince. He risked peeking over the edge of his gravestone, just in time to see Sam jump into the open grave.

“We’ve got a juicy one,” came the report from the depths. Dean gagged, turning back to stare at the dirt. How could his life get any more messed up?

“Here’s the salt.”

Salt?

There was a strange sound, and Sam cried out. Dean looked over the mossy stone to see Sam sprawled several feet away from the grave, while Mary began shaking salt over the grave.

“Mom, look out!”

Sam pulled up a shotgun and shot at something behind Mary that Dean couldn’t see. He waited for the thud of a new body, but nothing. Instead, Mary even more frantically began shaking something else on the grave, maybe water?

Sam cried out again, and Dean . . . okay, he had gone crazy. But somehow Sam was suspended in midair, a ephemeral figure holding him up by one hand around his throat.

“Sammy!” Mary cried out. Instead of going towards her son, Dean watched her pull out a lighter, and toss it in the grave. Fire flared up, and Sam fell.

“Easy, Sammy, breathe for me, baby, come on.”

Sam coughed and groaned, body bucking weakly. “I hate it when they do that,” he rasped. Mary helped him to his feet.

And Dean realized, too late, that he was standing in plain view.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean’s bright eyes were wide, fire from the bones of the ghost reflected in them. Mary swallowed, steeling herself.

Sam, still hanging on her shoulder and looking in the other direction, coughed. “Mom, are we going to fill in the grave, or what?”

She turned him around, pointing him toward Dean. With her hands on his shoulders, she could feel the instant he tensed up, and all of his weary muscles became taut with a second rush of adrenaline.

“What are you doing here?” Sam demanded instantly, voice hoarse. Her boy had always been strong.

Dean’s mouth opened, but no words came out.

“Sam, I think—“ Mary started.

“Forget you saw anything.” Sam took a step forward. Mary noted worriedly that he wobbled a little, still weak from being strangled. “Go home, Dean.”

At his name, Dean seemed to shake himself. “What . . . what was that?”

“Never seen a ghost before?” Sam crossed his arms across his chest.

“Ghost?”

Dean was looking a little shocked. Mary sighed, intervening before they got into it any further. “Follow us back to the motel. We’ll talk there.”

“Mom—“ Sam started.

“Not now, Sam. If it makes you feel better, ride with him and make sure he doesn’t call the cops on us,” she murmured, low so Dean couldn’t hear.

“Fine.” Sam bent over, still rubbing at his throat, and picked up his duffle from the muddy ground. Thankfully the rain had finally stopped. “I’m coming with you,” he said, louder.

Dean, still looking a little dazed, nodded uncertainly. “Okay.”

Mary watched them walk off to Dean’s car while she went to the Impala.

“It’s okay, baby,” she murmured to her car. “They’ll work things out. They’re brothers.”

The Impala purred in response, but somehow, Mary wasn’t comforted. She drove back into town, the slick roads forcing her to stay in the speed limit, even though she wanted to shorten the journey. Before Dean and Sam killed each other.

She pulled into the parking lot, watching Dean’s Toyota pull up in a spot one over. Dean got out first, face flushed—Mary wasn’t sure if it was from embarrassment or anger. Sam levered himself out after, a grim expression on his face.

“In here,” Mary called.

“Oh, he already knows. He’s been stalking us all day,” Sam said, venom lacing his voice. “Come on, kid.”

Dean bristled. “Don’t ‘kid’ me, I’m older than you.”

Sam merely sneered, limping into the room and throwing the duffel down.

“Sam, go take a shower,” Mary told him.

Sam glowered. “Mom, with him—“

“We’ll be fine.” Mary stared him down, and he went, grumbling under his breath.

“Glad to see you have a leash on your attack dog,” Dean said wryly.

Mary turned her gaze on him. “What did the two of you talk about?”

Dean bared his teeth in a faux smile. “Oh, y’know. What all brothers talk about. Ghosts, werewolves, and death threats.”

Mary sighed, sinking down onto her bed. “Dean, I’m sorry you had to learn this way. I know this is difficult to process, and—“

“I got the truth is out there speech from your lovely son,” Dean interrupted her. “I don’t need you softening the blow or whatever crap you are gonna give me.”

Mary felt his words like a physical blow. She swallowed, trying to come up with words—any words—that might help.

“When you told me that you left my dad for some vague nonsense reason, was it because of this . . .” Dean gestured vaguely.

Mary twisted her mouth. Well, there was no use keeping it secret now. “Yes,” she said.

Dean seemed to digest that for a moment. Both of them looked to the bathroom door as the shower shut off.

“What did Sam say?” Mary asked quickly.

Dean’s eyes darkened. “Essentially, he told me what’s out there and to run away, because that’s how all cowards are.”

Mary cringed. “Sam doesn’t warm up to people easily,” she told Dean quietly. “He used to, before—“

The bathroom door opened, no steam emerging.

“Water’s cold?” Mary asked. Dean’s eyes were sharp on her before they flickered away.

Sam grunted, rubbing a towel through his hair. “I vote that we get a better motel room on rainy days.”

“Agreed.”

* * *

To put it simply, Dean was at a disadvantage. His mother and brother moved in easy patterns around each other, finishing up their ghostbusting job, packing up their arsenal of weapons, and getting ready for the night. Dean sat on one of the beds, silently watching them.

If he hadn’t seen if with his own eyes, Dean figured he’d be protesting, possibly even laughing it off. Ghosts, werewolves, vampires—though Sam had mentioned offhandedly that vampires weren’t real.

“Dean, you want the shower?”

Dean blinked, at—he couldn’t call her mother, it was sour in his mouth—Mary, uncertainly. “What?”

“Unless you have a motel room already,” she said accommodatingly.

Sam snorted from the table, where he was on his laptop. “Probably has a hotel room,” he said. “Motels would be roughing it, Mom.”

Under normal circumstances, Dean would’ve let his temper take over, but as it was, still in shock, he let the implied insult slide off his shoulders. “I didn’t get a room, yet.”

Mary looked at him thoughtfully. “You could share a bed with Sam.”

Sam stood from the motel, murder in his eyes. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Mom, are you kidding me?”

She stood as well, hands on her hips. “The beds are queen-sized, and you’re too skinny to even take up any space.”

Sam glowered. “I’m getting bigger,” he muttered, but to Dean’s ears, it sounded worn and used only as a way to distract himself from saying anything else.

“Take a shower, Dean.”

There was an inherent authority in Mary’s voice that Dean found himself automatically obeying. A part of him resented it.

Dean took a quick shower, stepping out and glancing, dismayed, at his muddy and damp clothes crumpled on the floor. He hadn’t even thought to pack an overnight bag.

Mary’s voice sounded through the door. “Dean, do you need clothes?”

“Yeah, that’d be great,” Dean replied, reluctantly.

A t-shirt and flannel pants were passed through. Dean pulled them on, feeling short for the first time in his life as the flannel dragged around his ankles.

“We’ve just ordered Chinese, if that’s alright with you,” Mary said once he stepped out of the bathroom. She finished sharpening the knife in her hand and slid it into a bag with practiced ease. “We can always get pizza, if you’d rather.”

Dean shrugged. “Chinese is fine.”

The evening passed in awkward silence, Sam completely ignoring Dean, while Mary interjected vague small talk.

It was worse as they prepared to go to bed.

“Look, maybe I should go get my own room—“ Dean suggested, hovering by the bed.

Mary shook her head. “You don’t know how to put up wards, yet.”

“There are wards?”

Sam snorted. “What, you think we lie around completely defenseless?”

Dean scowled. “Yeah, well, if you left my Dad for his safety, how come you didn’t tell him about, uh, wards?”

Mary raised an eyebrow. “There are wards all over that house,” she stated.

It was a toss-up between a feeling of violation and unease. Dean settled onto the bed without another word, feeling it dip as Sam got in on the other side.

“You kick me and I’ll slit your throat.”

Dean looked over in time to see Sam slide a knife under his pillow. He shoved himself into a sitting position, staring at him in disbelief.

“You could cut yourself!” he exclaimed. “Or me,” he added in afterthought.

Sam bared his teeth in a half-smile that was eerily like Dad’s had been every time a customer was getting on his nerves. “Better safe than sorry.”

Dean lay down again, slowly.

* * *

Sam kept his hand curled around his knife, listening to his mother’s breathing evening out in sleep. The guy next to him stayed stiff and probably wide-awake. Sam turned onto his side, facing Dean. Sam deliberately let his body go slack and his eyes close, like he had just fallen asleep.

Instead of getting up, like Sam might have expected, there was no movement from the other side of the bed. Sam waited, carefully cracking one eye half-open.

Dean lay on his back, hands folded across his chest. In the minimal light from the motel room window, Sam thought he caught an unnatural glint to Dean’s eyes. Either he was close to crying, or he was a shapeshifter, Sam wasn’t sure.

“Dude, are you crying?” he whispered.

Dean jerked, nearly falling off the bed. “Shut up,” he hissed. One hand came up to swipe at his eyes, confirming Sam’s suspicion.

“If you’re crying about the supernatural being real, then man, you better pack your bags and head home.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Sure.” Sam rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. There was a strange stain. Probably mold.

“I . . . I have a question.”

Sam wanted to sigh, but forced himself to breathe normally. “What?”

“Will my dad become a ghost?”

Sam froze. There was so much pain in Dean’s voice; guilt ran through Sam’s veins like snake venom. “No,” he said softly. “Ghosts are born out of unfinished business. Your dad died peacefully.”

“Is there any way to know for sure?”

“You could’ve cremated him, but look, I’m pretty sure. It takes really powerful emotion to become a ghost.”

“Okay.”

Sam shifted uneasily, finally settling back on the side where he could watch Dean. “I am sorry,” he said softly. “That your father’s dead.”

Dean turned to face him as well. “He was your dad too.”

“Blood means nothing,” Sam said baldly. “It’s about bonds deeper than that.”

The openness on Dean’s face leeched away as he scowled. “Goodnight.” He turned over, leaving Sam staring at his back.

“Goodnight.”

Sam had honed the ability years ago to find the exact point between sleeping and waking. His mom got onto him all the time, since he never really rested, but it meant he was able to react at an instant’s notice.

Sam spent the entire night in the half-dozing state. By dawn, he was up and showered, ready to leave. He watched Mom and Dean sleep, until finally they began to stir.

“Do you want me to get breakfast?” Sam asked.

Mom shook her head. “We can pick it up on the way out.”

Dean spoke up. “Where are you going?” Half of his hair lay flat against his skull. Sam fought the sudden urge to smile.

Mom looked at him. “There’s another hunt. We were going to take it on after this one.” For a moment, Dean looked lost. “You could come with us.”

The urge to smile was entirely gone. Sam started forward, growling.

Dean swung his feet off the bed. “That obviously isn’t a welcome suggestion,” he said.

Sam went to stand by his mom. “You can’t be serious,” he hissed.

His mother’s calm gaze met his. “Sam,” she said softly. “Imagine I had died.”

Sam flinched. It was low, bringing that up. “That doesn’t mean—“

“Please, Sam.”

His mother didn’t ever use the word ‘please’ unless it was important to her. Sam bowed his head. “Fine.”

Dean took a step towards them. “I didn’t even say that I wanted to come with you two.”

“Mom knows people,” Sam told him. He gathered up his bag. “I’m gonna drive.”

Dean made an expression like a dying goldfish. “I don’t—“

Mom stood, going over to touch Dean’s shoulder. “You’re curious,” she stated, “about all of this. And unless you’re very inconsiderate, you didn’t leave any important people in Lawrence when you followed us out here. It’s a dangerous job, so if you want to stay out of it, you should. It’s your choice. Sam and I will pack up the car while you decide.”

Sam followed his mother out the door.

“Are we really doing this?” he asked skeptically.

His mom leaned against the Impala. “Sam, he’s my son. I know he doesn’t feel like a brother to you, but he’s alone, and he’s miserable. And now that he knows about the supernatural, can you imagine what he might do on his own?”

Sam sighed. “Fine, but I get to pick out a new gun whenever we snag some more money.”

“Deal.” His mom leaned up and kissed him on the cheek. “That’s my good boy.”

Sam rubbed his cheek, trying to scowl. “Ew, Mom.”

She only grinned.


	4. Chapter 4

Dean was stupid. Crazy. Something.

He sold his car. Shut down his dad’s old shop. Shrugged on his dad’s old leather jacket—it didn’t fit easily on his shoulders, but it was all he had left from his father—and tried to adjust. And so he sat in the backseat of a gorgeous car, and stared at the back of the heads of his long-lost mother and sibling. Dean’s life was spiraling out of control. A psychologist would have a field day with him.

“A revenant?” Sam asked. One hand hung out the open window, drifting in the slipstream.

“That’s right,” Mary confirmed.

Dean cleared his throat. “What’s a revenant?”

Mary turned her head, blonde curls falling over her shoulder. “Think zombie. Just a little more directed. All we have to do is figure out who died angry enough to come back for revenge. Open and shut case.”

Dean swallowed. “Ah. How do you find these things?”

“Newspapers, online articles, usually,” Mary explained. “A lot of it’s through other hunters. This one Sam found on an online forum. People are dying at night only in an area circling the graveyard, which is usually a sign of revenants or curses.”

“Or a locational ghost. But those are rare,” Sam interjected.

“So why do you think it’s a revenant?” Dean asked.

“A lovely scent of rotting flesh at each of the crime scenes,” Sam said. There was a grin in his voice, and Dean made a face.

“And you guys just do this 24/7? One job, then the next, then the next?”

Mary placed her arm across the back of the bench seat. “Sometimes, yeah. Other times jobs take weeks, even months, to finish. Other times there aren’t any hunts for a while. It’s hit or miss.”

“Sounds a bit insecure, as far as jobs go,” Dean commented.

“If you’re going to complain about it, you can get out of the car,” Sam said from the driver’s seat.

“Sam—“ Mary said warningly.

Sam sighed, passing a semi. “Sorry,” he muttered.

Dean didn’t bother acknowledging him. He knew from experience that it was best to ignore anyone who was determined to hate him.

“Why don’t you give me the basics?” he asked Mary.

Mary beamed at him. “Sure! Sam, next time we pull over I’ll go to the backseat, okay?”

“Whatever.”

As much as Dean was unconvinced he was making the right choice, the information Mary gave him was fascinating. And, as much as he wanted to hate his mother for leaving Dad, she was far too sweet and intelligent for any kind of real anger to build up.

She handed over the journal, pointing at a page. “Wrote this one a while ago. These are the wards we set up every night—blessings on the windows and doors, a line of salt to make sure ghosts stay out, and hex bags in the corners of the rooms.”

“What’s inside?” Dean asked.

“Herbs. We’ll go through the names later, but the end result is a protection against a majority of supernatural entities, or at the very least, a warning sign. The hex bags reveal the true face.”

“Huh.” Dean flipped through the pages, the back entries changing from a looping script to a tight, scratchy hand. “I take it this is where Sam took over.”

Mary laughed, lines at the corners of her eyes crinkling. “Sam’s a genius with research. I was all too happy to give him that duty once he was old enough.”

Dean glanced to the front. Sam seemed entirely absorbed in driving. “I didn’t really ask, but do you . . . y’know, need me? On these hunts.”

“Of course! An ideal hunt would be with at least four people, but it’s rare to be able to get that kind of firepower,” Mary said. “Did John teach you how to shoot?”

Dean’s chest constricted momentarily at the thought of his father. He tried to hide it by pulling up one side of his mouth. “I’m pretty sure I learned how to shoot before I could friggin’ walk.”

“At least you and Sam have something in common, then.” Mary snagged the journal and flipped it to the back page. “Sam, how long ’til we arrive?”

“Half an hour.”

“I’m going to document the last hunt. You good to drive?”

“I could take a turn,” Dean interjected.

Mary eyed him. “Not sure I can trust you with the Impala, yet. I haven’t seen you drive.”

Dean scowled. “I’m an excellent driver. My dad owned a shop, you know.”

“If you drive anything like your father, then you aren’t laying a hand on my baby,” Mary declared.

Dean gaped at her, and then couldn’t help laughing.

* * *

Remaining silent in the driver’s seat had been hard enough. It got worse as they found a motel, Dean eagerly lapping up whatever Mom offered him, while Sam was left doing the menial tasks like getting dinner and checking the weapons.

Not like he wouldn’t’ve been doing that anyway. Still.

Sam rolled his head around on his neck, stretching. “I’m going to scout out the local scene,” he announced.

His mom looked at him sharply. “Now?”

Sam lifted and dropped one shoulder. “Nothing better to do,” he said blandly.

Her green eyes narrowed. “Well, then why don’t you take Dean with you?”

“I don’t need him blundering in and making it impossible to get intel.”

“Then maybe I’ll just watch you, huh?” Dean approached Sam. “Brother.” His smile was sharp.

“You stay out of my way, then we’re fine.” Sam tucked his knife into his boot and stood. “Keep up.”

He strode out the door, sliding into the Impala and cranking the engine. Dean yanked the other door open and dropped inside.

“Man, you have issues.”

Sam didn’t bother responding. He drove them across town, to a bar he had scoped out on the way in.

“Don’t screw this up,” he warned.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Dean replied.

Sam entered the bar, straightening his slouch and putting on an easy smile. He approached the bar, ordering two bears and leaning casually against the grimy lacquered surface. On survey of the room, he picked out some middle-aged men, obviously the gossips of the town, circled around a pool table, barely playing a game. Sam picked up his beer, loping across the room to hang around the table.

“—and I told him, ‘you eat that and you’ll have the runs for a month!’”

Their laughter was crude. Sam swaggered a little closer.

“You guys playing?” he asked.

“Who’re you?” One asked belligerently.

“Just passing through, you guys seem like you’re pretty skilled, right? I can totally take you on.”

“Is that right, kid?” They laughed, nudging each other. “Alright, let’s play a game.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam saw Dean snag a table, watching him over his beer. The guy was completely conspicuous in how he was watching Sam. Idiot.

“Wanna break?”

“Sure thing.”

Sam barely hit the edge, letting them scatter slightly. He groaned. “Can I have a do-over?”

“Dude, no do-overs.”

Sam let the game continue, bragging, yet playing terribly. He gradually steered the conversation towards the town, the local news.

“What’s with all the cops? Musta passed at least four cars. Kansas gettin’ dangerous?”

One of the guys snorted. “Seems like it. Buncha people dying.”

“That sucks,” Sam said feelingly. “Who?”

“That jerk, what’s his name, Nicholas? No one liked that guy.”

Sam missed another pocket, cursing before standing back and leaning on his cue. “No one? In the whole town?”

The guy shrugged. “Guy probably killed his girlfriend. He got off on a technicality, but ever since then, most people’ve been hoping the Nicholas would skip town.”

“And the other people?” Sam prompted.

“Poor old Jenny,” one older guy said. “Happened while she was visiting her dead husband’s grave.”

Sam had practically all the information he needed. He glanced down at the pool table.

“Looks like I’ve lost,” he said casually. “I’ll catch you guys later.”

He slipped through the bar’s crowd, breathing in the night air once he escaped.

“Well, that was enlightening.”

Sam’s shoulders tightened up at Dean’s voice. He turned, face set in a scowl. “Yeah? Why’s that?”

Dean’s eyes were calculating. “It takes a certain kind of person to pull off a con like that. Never thought you’d be that guy.”

“You don’t know anything about me.”

* * *

Mary, in a strange, twisted way, enjoyed the graveyard hunts. At the end of the day, ghost, zombies, revenants, ghouls—all of them were people who needed to be put to rest, and supplying that need wasn’t such a bad gig. The only bad part was the smell.

And, in this case, the painful new dynamic in their team.

“I don’t think Dean needs to be holding the shotgun.” Sam’s eyes were dark with annoyance and frustration. “He can do the watching from the sidelines. Or throwing salt.”

Mary tossed Sam a revolver, unloaded. “We don’t know that salting will put this creature down, Sam. Just because the tradition says revenants are susceptible to it, doesn’t mean that this one is. I need someone with salt, someone with iron, and someone with silver. Giving Dean the salt rounds is the safest bet before we check out his skills shooting.”

Sam’s shoulders went up around his ears. “I don’t like it,” he grumbled.

“If you’re going to whine, then maybe you can stay back,” Mary snapped.

Sam went silent. Mary would have to talk things through with him later.

Dean walked up from the car, shotgun in hand. “We ready for this?” With his jaw clenched and entire body tense, he looked remarkably like his father in that old leather jacket.

“Looks like it,” she said easily. She squeezed his shoulder encouragingly. “Are you set?”

“Yeah.” Dean straightened.

Sam finished loading the revolver with iron rounds. “She’ll be waking up soon.”

“Take point, Sam,” Mary commanded.

He silently did so, gliding over the ground with a skill born of training his entire life. Mary gestured for Dean to follow him—he did so, keeping his shotgun nested in his shoulder.

“We’re getting close to her grave,” Sam called over his shoulder. “Eyes sharp. She’ll be waking up now.”

“Why couldn’t we have come when she was asleep, or . . . staying dead, or whatever?” Dean’s voice trembled a little.

Mary could still remember her first hunt. Barely old enough to hold a heavy gun in her tiny hands, but her father had taken her to the graveyard, showing her how to toss salt and light a match. She had been terrified.

“Revenants need to be destroyed while they’re active, otherwise their souls will jump and possess the last body they killed,” Sam murmured. He seemed to have put aside his feelings about Dean for the hunt, which meant that Mary could focus on the hunt instead of her boys.

Her boys. The thought made something in Mary that had been tied up, tight as a square knot, loosen into something more manageable.

“There.” Sam twisted around, gun held out in front of him.

“What is it?” Dean had twisted too, shotgun now visibly shaking.

“She’s a runner,” Sam murmured. He moved forward, steady and silent.

Mary heard it, the next time. The soft tread of a bare foot, uneven steps from joints that had become stiffened in death.

A shot went off. Sam had his gun outstretched, eyes focused.

“You get it?” Mary asked.

He shook his head.

“My turn,” she murmured. Darting forward, she twisted around the gravestones, chasing the little she could see of the revenant. Shadow-like, it slid between the graves. Mary shot once, twice, winging it the second time. The revenant stumbled around, grotesque face drawn in a snarl.

“Mom!”

Mary judged from his voice that Sam was about ten paces back. She stopped running, setting her stance and raising her gun again.

The revenant twisted, ducking behind a gravestone and looking surprisingly human as it did so. Mary’s shot hit the rock, doing nothing to the creature. She took a couple steps forward.

The revenant leapt out from behind the stone, catching Mary with her gun slightly lowered. She went down with it, feeling bony fingers dig into her stomach, shoving her into the dirt.

Sam’s voice cried out again. Mary slammed her gun up, smashing the once-beautiful face. The revenant reeled back, and Mary took the opportunity to roll out from underneath it.

“Now, Sam!” she called.

He got off two shots, both of them straight into the revenant. The revenant snarled, pushing upwards to its feet.

“Iron doesn’t work!” Sam called. “Dean, shotgun!”

The shotgun went off, missing the revenant. The revenant went for Mary, forcing her to run away, heavy combat boots sinking into the soft graveyard loam.

There was some cursing, some sounds of running, and then the shotgun went off again. Mary turned to see the revenant go down, Sam sprinting over to unload another blast into the revenant for good measure.

“Mom, are you okay?” his eyes swept over her, assessing.

“Yeah, kiddo, nice work,” Mary panted. “Set ‘er ablaze?”

“Sure thing.” Sam fished out matches and lighter fluid from his pocket. He did the honors, staring at the revenant.

Mary looked up as Dean approached, empty hands flexing unconsciously.

“I’m sorry,” he said.


	5. Chapter 5

Sam was dying to give a good ol’, “I told you so” to Dean. In deference to his mother, he wouldn’t, but he could still give significant looks.

“I’ll take that,” he said primly, twitching the duffel out of Dean’s hands.

“I can carry it.” Dean’s voice was a deeper rasp, tinged with embarrassment.

Sam ignored him, slinging the duffel over his shoulder as he elbowed his way into the room.

The running water meant his mom had grabbed first shower. Sam set the bags down, stretching languidly. The letdown after a successful hunt left his entire body feeling weary but satisfied. The journal lay open on the desk—Sam twisted it around, staring down at the titled entry for revenants. He would have to update that salt founds were the confirmed method of killing them.

“We should clean the guns, right?” Dean asked gruffly.

Sam turned, raising an eyebrow. “You know how?”

Dean seemed to be oscillating between anger and embarrassment. “Yes.”

“Have fun.” Sam tossed him the weapons duffel, only half-paying attention to his brother. He was listening for his mom getting out of the shower. He hated hunts that put her in the crosshairs.

“Mom? You good?”

“Stop whining, I left you hot water,” she called.

“You know that’s not what I’m worried about,” Sam snapped. “Don’t make me come in there.”

“Dude.” Dean was looking at him like he was crazy. “She’s your mom.”

“And I’m nineteen years old. Wow, look at that, I can say random facts about myself too. Shut up,” Sam returned.

Dean lifted his hands, making an expression that essentially said he thought Sam was crazy.

“Alright, alright.” Mom came out, dressed in sweatpants and a ratty tank top. “Promise, the worse is only on my shoulder.”

Sam glowered, turning her around and carefully pulling the fabric aside to see the purpling bruises on her shoulders. “You’re sure?” he asked skeptically.

His mom hummed. Sam ran his hands lightly over the bruises before turning his mother around. “You’re okay,” he confirmed.

She smiled at him. “Course I am, Sammy.” She drew him into a hug, and Sam let himself sink into the embrace, focusing on remembering that she was alive, and she was fine. It was all that mattered.

Dean’s voice intruded. “You two okay?”

Sam pulled away, glaring at the guy before retreating to the bathroom. He stripped, quick and efficiently, avoiding looking at the mirror, as usual. The water lasted about five minutes before it went cold, forcing Sam back out into the room.

“Shower,” he grunted to Dean. Mom was already curled up on the bed, reading.

The bathroom door closed with a click. His mom looked up at him.

“You shouldn’t be so hard on him. Don’t you remember how tough it was when you started?”

Sam snorted. “Yeah. But I wasn’t in my twenties and already supposed to be proficient with a firearm. He totally fumbled the shot.”

She shrugged, setting aside the well-worn paperback. The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. One of Mom’s favorites. “Everyone has a bad day.”

Sam sat down on the side of the bed. “I can co-exist with the guy,” Sam told her, “but I can’t promise you I’ll like him.”

Mom reached up, cupping his cheek. “Can you at least try? Dean did just lose his dad and have to start an entirely new life. It isn’t easy, and he needs your help.”

Sam sighed. “I can try. No promises.”

* * *

Mary stifled a laugh. She had gotten up bright and early—courtesy of the bruises that made it impossible to get entirely comfortable—to find Sam and Dean tangled up close together, practically snuggling. She pulled out her phone, snapping a picture and grinning. Perfect blackmail.

She rose, breathing deeply. A morning walk would calm her down before the next drive, assuming they could find a hunt.

Mary made sure to write an obvious note; Sam would freak out otherwise.

“Y’need the room cleaned?”

The motel’s maid was trying to peer past Mary into the room. She shut the door, pressing out a smile. “No ma’am, we’re all set. Thank you.”

The motel was on the edge of town, allowing Mary to walk into the nearby fields without worrying about trespassing. Her phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Mary, glad to hear your voice.”

“Same to you, Ellen. Jo doing okay?”

“Same as usual, whining about not getting to hunt. How’s your boy?”

“Good. I, uh, actually have two now.”

There was a silence on the other end of the line for a moment until an outraged, “are you telling me you’re pregnant and hunting, Mary Winchester?” came across the phone.

Mary laughed. “No, Ellen. My firstborn. I left him with his father, but the father recently died of a heart attack. He’s on the road with us.”

“Huh.” Ellen’s voice had deeper significance behind it. “And Sam?”

Mary sighed. “Dealing.”

“It’ll be good for him. He needs to connect with people.”

“My thoughts exactly. You call to catch up, or is something going on?” Mary asked.

“Rumor is a big case is in Iowa. Everyone I’ve called’s been caught up in hunts. Are you free?”

“We’re in northern Kansas right now. We’ll swing by the Roadhouse and get the details.”

“See you soon.”

Ellen was always short and to the point. Mary smiled as she snapped her cell closed, turning around to head back to the motel. They needed to get a move on.

On entering the room, she let the door bang against the wall. Sam sprang out of bed like he’d been burned, staring at Dean with a flush traveling up his cheeks. Mary smirked.

“Morning, boys,” she greeted.

“Mom.” Sam acknowledged gruffly. “Are we heading out?”

“Harvelle’s, they have a case for us.”

Sam began sweeping things into bags.

Dean sat up, blearily rubbing at his eyes.

“Wake up and get your butt in gear,” Mary told him.

For a moment, Dean’s face was open as he smiled. “My dad used to—“ Just as quickly, his face shut down again. Mary bit her lip, going over and nudging his shoulder.

“C’mon, kid, we’ve got to get moving. People dying.”

Dean seemed to shake himself. “Right. People dying. Got it.”

* * *

It amazed Dean that there could be entire bars where hunters would come together. Strike that, he was still amazed about hunting in general. Even so, it was pretty interesting to see the dynamic in this entire community that was somewhat separate from the rest of the world. His anthropology professor would’ve killed to get an interview with some of the hunters.

“Mary!”

“Ellen!” The two women hugged and then the new hunter—huntress?—turned to Sam.

“Look at you, kid. Did you get taller again?” She drew him into a hug as well.

“Hi, Ellen,” he said softly.

“Ellen, this is Dean.” Mary tugged Dean forward.

The woman smiled. “I’d recognize those green eyes anywhere. Nice to meet you, Dean. You can call me Ellen.”

“Nice to meet you,” Dean said. “You hunt as well?”

“Rarely. My husband does most of the hunting while I hold down the fort. Beer?”

Dean nodded.

“The two of them are going to be talking for hours,” Sam spoke up. For once, he was directly addressing Dean. “Best to start drinking now.”

“Hush, you.” Ellen cuffed the back of Sam’s head. “Go find Jo, she’s been wanting to show you something.”

Dean trailed after Sam. In the backroom, a slender girl was washing dishes—at the sight of Sam, she squealed and dropped her sponge, throwing herself into Sam’s arms.

“Sam!” As soon as she took a step back, she slapped him playfully on the arm. “It’s been forever, and you promised you’d be back for my prom.”

Sam rubbed the back of his neck. Amused, Dean watched as he fumbled for a response.

“Um, Jo, this is my brother Dean.”

Jo barely spared Dean a glance. “Nice to meet you,” she said, refocusing on Sam. “Why do you have a brother?”

“Mom took me, the dad took him, I guess.” Sam’s flannel-clad shoulders raised and lowered. “Are you doing alright?”

Jo sighed. “Dad still won’t let me go on any hunts.”

“That sucks,” Sam said, but Dean could read the insincerity in his voice. Jo apparently could as well, punching him soundly.

“Shut up, Winchester. Wanna see my new knife?”

“Jo, I need help serving!”

Jo threw her blonde curls over her shoulder. “Later then,” she promised, and in a flash she was gone.

Dean whistled, drawing Sam’s gaze.

“What?” he asked suspiciously.

“She has got it bad,” Dean laughed. “C’mon, tell me you aren’t leaving that poor girl hanging.”

Sam hunched his shoulders in an attempt to seem smaller, a quirk that Dean had seen a lot in the short period of time he’d been hanging out with the guy. “It’s not like that,” he defended. “Jo’s like a little sister to me.”

Dean snorted. “I don’t think that’s how she sees it.”

Sam twitched. “Just shut up. We’re here to get the intel and we’ll head out.”

Dean smirked and followed Sam out of the kitchen, snagging a beer on the way.

“Thanks, Ellen,” Mary was saying. She gestured for Dean to come over.

“Yeah?” he asked.

Mary’s brow was furrowed. “How would you feel about staying with the Harvelle’s?” she asked, uncertainty in her voice.

Dean stared at her blankly. “What? Why?”

Mary drew him to the side, surprisingly strong grip towing him away from the others. “This hunt’s for a shapeshifter,” she murmured. “This kind of hunt is usually very difficult and very nasty. And I don’t think—“

“—that I’m ready for it,” Dean said coolly. He pulled his arm out of her grip. “Well, guess what, lady, you invited me on this journey, then you better not stop me from sticking with it.”

Mary made an exasperated noise as Dean turned away, heading back where Sam was sipping his beer and talking with Jo.

“Are you even legal?” Dean asked bluntly.

“Of course not.” Sam raised an eyebrow. “What’s your deal?”

“You can tell your mother that I’m sticking with hunting,” Dean said. “And I’d like to see either of you stop me.”


	6. Chapter 6

Mary swallowed, looking from Sam to Dean. “You boys ready?” she asked.

Sam was more muted than usual, sliding his silver knife up his sleeve and brushing his hair out of his eyes. “Mom, you’re good?”

“Yeah, Sammy.” She forced herself to keep breathing normally. Shifters got under her skin—literally—in a way most other supernatural creatures didn’t.

“Remember, Dean, their eyes will reflect light differently. If at any point you aren’t sure, shine a light.”

“Got it.” Dean was watching Sam uncertainly, probably because he wasn’t ribbing at Dean like usual. Sam only had eyes for her, though, and Mary obligingly made a face at him.

“Stop worrying, Sam,” she said. “If you keep watching me, I’ll poke your eye out.”

“I take it you don’t like shapeshifters,” Dean mentioned tentatively.

Mary grimaced. “One killed my cousin, disguised as me. Not exactly good memories.”

“I’m so sorry,” Dean said.

“Let’s get this hunt going,” Sam interrupted, voice strong. Her son knew how much she didn’t like talking about her past, and Mary smiled at him gratefully. She slid her own knife into her side holster.

“Remember, silver bullet or knife to the heart,” she said, for Dean’s benefit. “We have a central location—let’s roam the streets first, and then go to the sewers.”

“Wait,” Dean said. “Do you have the city sewer plans?”

“I went over them on the drive up,” Sam said. “Why?”

“I was in engineering in college. Let me take a look.”

Sam passed the plans over. “You went to college?” Mary caught a wistful look in his eyes, but Dean missed it.

Dean ignored him, focusing on the plans. “Here,” he pointed out. “If the shapeshifter wants to have some kind of hide out, the best place is in this dead end.”

Mary leaned over, noting the location. “Nice,” she praised. “We’ll end there.”

Sam made an impatient sound. “Come on, let’s move before the shifter kills and tortures someone else.”

It was too conspicuous for them to all walk together, yet it was dangerous to split up. Sam and Mary had taken care of the problem last shifter hunt by walking on opposite sides of the street. This time, Sam took the other side while Dean stuck with Mary.

“Key to all of this is keeping your eye on your team at all times,” she murmured, scanning the street. “Shifters can look like anyone. You’re looking for behaviors—someone paying too much attention to people by themselves, or hiding in dark shadows.”

“Sounds pretty vague,” Dean said. His eyes flickered over to check on Sam. “Sam any good at this?”

“The best, actually. If anyone can pick a shifter out of a crowd, it’d be him.”

They walked the streets together until nightfall. Sam jogged across the empty street to join them.

“I didn’t see anyone in the crowds,” he said. “I think we need to move into the sewers.”

Dean stepped forward. “I can take us down there,” he said. Mary watched him carefully.

“Are you sure?”

He put his hand over his concealed handgun. “Yeah. This way.”

“Mom, do you trust him to lead?” Sam whispered to her.

Mary briefly squeezed his shoulder. “Have some faith in the guy.”

“Yeah, right.”

From the set of Dean’s shoulders, he had heard Sam. Mary sighed, walking a little faster to breach the gap between her two sons.

* * *

Dean opened the sewer grate, wrinkling his nose in disgust at the smell. “Why do they live in sewers, anyway?” he asked over his shoulder.

Mary answered, “they shed their skins when they change identities. Best place to hide that is in a sewer.”

“Great.” Dean lowered himself into the grate, grimacing at the liquid waste around his ankles. “I’m gonna need new shoes.”

Sam came splashing down, looking annoyingly calm.

“Does the smell not bother you?” Dean asked.

Sam shrugged. “Not so much. Mom, come on down.” There was silence from above them. Dean saw Sam suddenly go tense. “Mom!”

He scrambled for the opening, and Dean readied himself to follow when a hand suddenly covered his mouth. Dean was yanked backwards into the darkness and slammed into the sewer wall. He tried to cry out, but the back of his head collided with stone, and he was left too dizzy to even struggle as he was carried further into the sewers.

“Well, you must be a little green, huh?”

Sam’s voice echoed through the sewer, and Dean blinked as the features in front of him came into focus.

“Sam?” he mumbled.

“Ooh, he has issues with you, doesn’t he? Anything to get rid of this nuisance in his life. Guess I can be of some assistance when I kill you.”

Dean swallowed. “Why are you doing this?”

The shifter twisted thick ropes around Dean’s torso and wrists. “Mostly because it’s fun.” Mad eyes gleamed at him, Sam’s normally calm hazel looking insidious in the sewer’s gloom. “I’ll be right back.”

Dean was left in the silence, the only noise that of rushing water. He tried calling out, but his voice was muted, and he gave up pretty quickly.

It had been a short career of hunting. Dean laughed in the darkness. The sound was a little bit hysterical. He should never have left Lawrence. Chances were, Sam would be going after Mary. The guy probably hadn’t even noticed that Dean had disappeared.

There was a splashing noise.

The shifter came into view, still looking like Sam. “Shall we see how you react to knives? You had this on you.” It held up the knife, looking at it distastefully. “Silver. I imagine it won’t feel great for you, either.” The knife slid under Dean’s shirt, trailing at the vulnerable skin of his belly.

Dean grunted as it went in, a shallow slice that stung.

“Sam has so much going on in this skull of his,” the shifter said conversationally. “You’re pretty new to the show, it seems. He’s just waiting for you to leave, walk out and act like everyone else in his life. Lots of abandonment issues rattling around in here.”

“Sure you’re not talking about yourself?” Dean hissed through the pain. “Guy hates me. Trust me, he’ll be more than happy when I leave.”

The shifter smiled, a cruel parody of the few times Dean had seen Sam smile at Mary. “You abandoned him, you know. Little boy, with only a mommy.” The face twitched, face darkening. “I needed you.”

Dean grit his teeth as the knife slid along his bicep. “You’re not Sam,” he stated.

The shifter snarled at him. “I was all alone, and you were off living a normal life.” The knife came close to Dean’s throat. “You—“

There was a choking noise. Dean blinked as the shapeshifter’s eyes flashed white and then rolled back into its head. It tumbled to the side, revealing Sam standing behind him.

“Sam?” Dean couldn’t help checking.

Sam made a noise of disgust, wiping off his knife. “Come on, Dean, let’s get out of here.”

* * *

Adrenaline was making Sam’s hands shake. He tugged Dean through the sewers, noting the blood seeping through his shirt in various places.

“What happened to Mary?” Dean gasped out.

“She was fighting another shifter. I went after you.”

“You didn’t help her first?”

Sam grit his teeth. “Don’t make me regret that decision.” He prodded Dean until he moved up and out of the sewer, following behind him.

“Where is she?”

A lesser man would’ve been focused on his wounds, and Sam felt a vague feeling of approval behind his panic for his mom. Sam led him down the side alley, finding his mother propped up against the wall, blood dark on her forehead. The other shifter was dissolving beside her.

“Mom!” He fell to his knees by her. “Mom, are you okay?”

She stirred, blinking at him. “Hey, Sammy. You with Dean?”

“Yeah.” He gently palpated around the lump on her head. “Injuries?”

“Mmm. Mild concussion. I hate shifters.”

Sam brushed the hair away from her wound. “Took care of him, didn’t you?”

“Uh huh.”

Sam easily lifted his mother into his arms, cradling her carefully against his chest. “Let’s get you in the Impala.”

“My other baby,” she mumbled

“Can I help?” Dean interjected.

“Get the car started.” Sam’s arms were trembling from his mother’s weight. “Mom, hang in there, okay?”

It was like herding his own hospital full of patients. Sam hated when his mom got hurt, and seeing Dean hurt as well somehow made it worse, as much as he’d been trying to distance himself from the man.

“Easy. Mom, hold that against your head. Dean, go rinse off while I take care of her.”

Sam was obeyed without any complaints, his mom settling back with a groan. “Hate shifters.”

“Yeah, Mom. Alright, you know the drill. Tell me who you are, where you are and—”

“Mary Winchester, in a sleazy motel, I have no idea what day it is because we only keep track of phases of the moon—it’s five days until new moon—and you are going to let me get some rest now.”

Sam smiled faintly. “Okay, mom. Sleep tight.”

The shower shut off, and Sam turned to his other duty. He opened the shower door without ceremony, getting a half-shriek out of Dean.

“Dude! Privacy, much?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Yes, let’s all die of infection. Get out on the bed and lie down.”

Dean edged past him, gripping his towel tightly and muttering something deprecating. Sam waited until he was supine before sitting on the bed next to him. The wounds were shallow.

“Won’t scar,” Sam told him aloud, his voice quiet in deference to his mother. “As long as we keep them clean, you should heal pretty quickly.” He swiped alcohol over the cuts and Dean hissed.

“Great,” he muttered. Sam continued to care for his wounds, feeling Dean’s gaze on him like a physical weight.

“Try and stay still while you sleep,” he instructed, bandaging the last of them.

As he made to stand, Dean’s hand shot out and gripped his wrist.

“Why?” Dean whispered. “You could’ve left me to die, and you didn’t.”

“That’s not . . . that’s not me,” Sam said awkwardly.

Dean pressed his lips together into a tight line. “Well, thanks,” he finally said.

“Don’t mention it.” Sam still felt guilt running up and down his spine, letting Dean get hurt the way he had. He cleared his throat. “So, you, uh . . .”

Dean raised his eyebrows. “Yeah?”

“You went to college?” Sam asked.

Dean’s eyes were calculating. “Small talk. Interesting.”

Sam flushed, starting to get to his feet.

“Yeah, I went. Got a degree in engineering, math always came easy to me. Getting a job wasn’t too hard, but once Dad’s health started going downhill, I resigned and took over the shop. I had hoped he would get back on his feet, but—“

Sam nodded, letting his hair go into his eyes so Dean wouldn’t see his expression. “Do you miss him?” he asked.

“Every damn day.” Dean wasn’t looking at him anymore. “I always told him he should take better care of himself.”

Sam didn’t quite know what to say, so he remained silent.

Dean rubbed at his eyes. “Anyway, you don’t want to hear about this.”

“I’m sorry you got hurt,” Sam blurted out. “You, uh, you should get some rest.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam could’ve sworn he saw his mom crack her eyes open and grin a little, but when he faced her, she looked like she was sleeping peacefully.


	7. Chapter 7

“Come on, don’t be shy.”

Dean looked uncertain. “It’s not that I think I’ll hurt you, it’s just—“

Mary didn’t give him time to finish, rushing him and forcing him to block her multiple times and back up.

“Fight like a man,” she taunted.

Dean growled and swept out a leg, an obvious move that Mary used to off-balance him, sending Dean sprawling.

“Not bad,” she acknowledged. “But you telegraph too much. And I’m going easy on you.”

The flush on her son’s face was either from embarrassment or exertion. Maybe both. “Yeah, well, most of my training was when I was a kid,” he muttered, picking himself off the ground.

“Which is why we’re training now.”

Mary pretended to be distracted, turning and glancing behind her at the back of the motel—predictably, Dean charged. Mary dodged, snagging his arm and dragging it behind his back. “You need to practice,” she said. “And stop being so tense.”

Dean spluttered. “Tense?”

Mary nodded, releasing his arm. “You’re grieving still, and you’re terrified of this new world. Give yourself some time before you go jumping in with both feet.” Mary stepped back.

Dean radiated discomfort. “I’m not grieving still. It’s been a month. I’m fine.”

Mary smiled at him sadly. “I’m grieving John’s death and I wasn’t even there for the last nineteen years. Give yourself time.” She nodded to the motel. “I think Sam’s almost finished with the research here. Five more sets of kicks and punches, and we can head out.”

They had been getting into a rhythm, their little team. Mary would be lying if she said it was smooth, but Sam had stopped resenting Dean’s existence for the most part, and Dean had taken a solid position as student-apprentice to hunting, and mostly followed Mary’s commands. The key, Mary had sadly discovered, was in making sure the two of them didn’t spend long periods of time together. Most of her day was devoted to keeping one of them occupied at a time.

Dean finished his last set, and the two of them turned to go into the motel.

Sam came bursting out of the front door, face triumphant. “We’ve got a hit! The satanists are making a pentagram.”

“Yes, shout it louder so that everyone can hear you,” Mary said drily.

Sam glanced around. “Oh. Yeah. Um, c’mon.”

They followed him into the room, Mary glancing behind them once more to check.

“Dude, you take obsessive to a whole new level,” Dean laughed, examining Sam’s pinned up wall of information.

Sam glowered. “Look.” He pointed to his map of the city. “These are the points where there have been sacrifices. One more, and it’s a—“

“—satanic symbol,” Mary finished. “And tonight’s a blood moon.”

Sam shuffled his stack of paper, glancing at the layout on the wall. “Yeah.”

“Nice work, Sammy.” She ruffled his hair, grinning. “Saddle up, boys.”

They set up at the barn before the satanists arrived, hiding in the rafters. By Mary’s side, Dean shifted in the hay.

“So, what are we doing? We aren’t killing them, are we?”

Mary shook her head. “They’re human, so no. We will threaten, possibly Sam’ll set off a dangerous spell if that doesn’t teach them.”

“Right.” Dean looked down. “And, uh, what if they have guns?”

“Then we’ll set the spell before threatening them. Hopefully that’ll be enough to satisfy them. If it isn’t, we adapt. Now hush.”

Dean fell into silence. Beneath them, the barn door creaked as it opened, various members—in robes, of all cliches—filing in and forming a circle. Mary imagined one of them stepping in manure and had to bite down a laugh.

They began whispering, chanting.

Mary gripped her gun tightly, getting ready to leap down like an avenging angel.

And Dean sneezed.

* * *

The second Sam heard Dean sneeze, he jumped off his perch and landed in the middle of the satanists—the surprise was lost, so he had to make do with what he had.

Racking his shotgun, he held it out, obvious and glaring.

“Anyone moves, and I shoot!” he called out.

Instead of listening to him, the satanists drew out weapons of their own, wicked looking knives and the fiery torches they had been carrying. Out of the corner of his eye, Sam saw Dean and Mom drop down behind him, backing his play.

“You won’t shoot us,” one of the guys said. He twisted his knife around, grinning.

“Try me,” Sam hissed.

They called his bluff. All of them moved forward as one, a creepy show of synchronization, directly towards the three of them.

Sam fired, above their heads, but it didn’t do anything. He was forced to use the barrel of his shotgun to parry one knife, Dean and Mary also barely blocking others from slicing them open. The barn became a riot of confusion, Sam constantly striking with his fists, dodging blades, and trying to protect his mom and Dean at the same time. There was no time to spit out the spell, and Sam wasn’t even sure it would’ve helped if he did.

Dean yelled, and Sam saw him violently block a torch being swung at his face, the burning wood spinning out of the satanist’s hand and into a convenient pile of hay. The hay caught fire, and the fire began spreading rapidly, causing Dean to retreat to the other side of the barn.

Half of the satanists went running, but Sam struggled in dismay as one kept him penned in with a machete, while he saw his mom get thrown to the floor by a larger man.

“Mom!”

Sam let the machete swing through and clip his shoulder. He managed to slam the butt of his shotgun into the head of the guy he was fighting, but he could see the other man raising a knife, ready to plunge it into his mother’s heart.

Sam let out a cry of inarticulate rage.

He swung his shotgun around, and fired.

The man went down—Sam had actual bullets in his gun, not just rock salt. Sam avoided the body, going to his mother and helping her to her feet.

“We need to get out of here!” Dean’s voice was faint due to the roaring of the fire. They ducked beneath burning beams and made their way out into the night. At the breath of fresh air, Sam suddenly coughed, mind catching up to his body.

“Cops’ll be here soon, let’s go, let’s go.”

The drive back seemed to be over in a minute, and Sam was stumbling out of the Impala, ignoring his mother’s call and Dean’s surprised look as he shoved his way into the room, going straight to the bathroom and throwing up in the toilet.

“Easy, Sammy, c’mon, you can stop, just calm down, okay?”

“What’s wrong with him, did he—“

Sam vomited again.

“Sammy, you didn’t have a choice.” Mary pressed one hand against his temple. “It’s not your fault.”

“Right,” he croaked.

She picked him up, dragging him into the main room. “Dean, can you grab the med kit from the car?”

“Sure thing.”

“Sammy.” His mom pushed him down onto the bed. “It was my fault, anyway, you did it because of me.”

“Couldn’t let him hurt you,” Sam whispered. “I hear it, I hear the screams all the time and I can’t let it happen, not again, I can’t—“

“Shh, shh, baby, just breathe, okay? I’m here, I’m fine. Look, I’m right here.”

“You can’t die,” Sam choked out. “Please, Mom, don’t leave me.” The darkness began to swallow him, eat him alive.

“I won’t, shhh.” His mom brushed her hand through his sweaty hair. “Sleep, Sammy.”

* * *

“And here I thought I had problems,” Dean muttered.

Mary gave him a sharp look, taking the first aid kit from his hands. “You know how to do stitches?”

“No.”

“Well, you’re going to learn.”

Dean settled in for the slightly gory process, swallowing his own nausea as Mary taught him. Only once she was cleaning up did he trust himself enough to speak.

“Why did Sam freak out like that?”

Mary sighed, swiping a washcloth across Sam’s sweaty forehead. “This job forces you to look at things differently, find a lot of grey in your morals. But somehow a human’s death always feels a whole lot worse, no matter how much they might deserve it or be threatening your safety. Sam’s always struggled with it.”

“Oh.” Dean swallowed. “So he’s killed before?”

Mary nodded. “People are sometimes far worse than the creatures that go bump in the night,” she murmured. “In . . . Louisiana. That was a bad one.”

“What happened?” Dean asked softly.

Mary’s hand came up to touch Dean’s arm, not a message of anything, just a point of contact that made the conversation somehow seem more intimate and secret. “A witch was casting spells, bewitching boys to rape little girls. One of Sam’s classmates was targeted, and when Sam wasn’t able to break the spell, he shot the—“ Mary bit her lip, obviously cutting off a nasty word.

Dean felt vaguely nauseous. “How old was he?”

“Eleven,” Mary whispered.

Dean cursed, and then cursed again when it didn’t seem like enough.

“He never really got a childhood. I . . . I tried to give it to him, but I think I failed pretty spectacularly when it came to protecting Sam.”

There was real grief in Mary’s eyes, and Dean felt the last of his anger over her abandonment drain away.

“And you?” he prompted.

Mary shook her blonde head. “I’ll save that for another day,” she murmured. “We should get sleep. Sam gets grumpy when he’s injured. We’ll need all our strength to deal with him whining tomorrow.”

Dean laughed weakly, edging onto the other bed, carefully trying to keep from disturbing Sam. All he managed to do was make Sam startle awake, hands held in a defensive position.

“It’s just me,” Dean whispered. “Go back to sleep, Sam.”

Sam mumbled something indistinguishable, slumping back onto the pillows. Dean stared at him, his throat to dry to swallow properly. Eleven years old, forced to kill. Dean couldn’t even begin to imagine. The wariness in Sam’s eyes whenever he came in contact with a human being made horrendous sense—Sam had seen the terrible, awful side of humanity. What reason did he have to trust anyone?

Sam turned in his sleep, one hand creeping out along the covers until it rested on Dean’s sleeve. Dean kept absolutely still as his brother’s hand twisted in the fabric. Something pulled tight in Dean’s throat.

As Dean fell asleep, he regretted for the first time since he had met the kid that he hadn’t been there for Sam in the past.

Mary hadn’t been lying about Sam’s grouchy side; in the morning, Dean woke up to Sam complaining about Dean hogging the covers, shoving him over with his good arm and snarling at Dean whenever he said anything for the entire morning, until even Mary snapped at him.

“Sam, would you stop it,” Mary said. “You need to stop bugging your brother.”

Sam’s eyes—emphasized by the dark shadows underneath them—focused on Mary. “He isn’t my brother,” he growled.

“Gee, thanks,” Dean muttered. It was difficult to reconcile the boy of Mary’s stories with this more belligerent version.

“We should go on to the next hunt,” Sam continued. “We don’t have the funds to stay.”

He swung his legs off the side of the bed.

“No!” Mary jumped over the other bed, pressing a palm into Sam’s chest. “Lie down before I tie you down, Sam Winchester.”

“Seriously, you’re injured,” Dean added.

All he got for his efforts was a glare. “You can just shut your mouth.”

Dean had never been known for having a lot of patience. “What is your problem?” he growled. “I haven’t done anything to you. Not to mention how I’ve given up everything to follow you out here and join in your little hunting game. The least you can offer is a little respect.”

Despite Mary’s protestations, Sam pushed to his feet. “Respect? Yeah, for the guy who lived a cushy life and is trying to be a real man by tagging along. Yeah, sure, I’ll respect you.”

Dean flushed, crossing his arms. “You shut up. I don’t need to prove myself to you by acting tough or killing people,” he snapped. He bit his tongue, as soon as the words left his mouth.

Sam, already pale from blood loss, went paper-white except for the flush high on his cheekbones.

Mary stared at Dean, looking betrayed.

“I’m sorry,” Dean stammered. “I didn’t mean—“

Sam got back into bed, rolled over, and didn’t speak to Dean for the rest of the day, or for the next week. Two steps forward, five hundred steps back.


	8. Chapter 8

Sam approached the Impala, finished with his scouting. “I’ve got a headcount of three.”

“I thought you said vampires didn’t exist?” Dean asked softly.

Mary slid a machete free from the arsenal in the trunk. “We thought they didn’t. We were wrong,” she said coolly. “Can you handle this?”

“Sure.” Subdued, Dean took up a machete himself, glancing at Sam. Sam ignored him, focusing on his mom.

“Mom, are we good?”

She nodded. “You and Dean take the west side.”

Sam hefted his own machete, the silver edge gleaming. “Stay safe.”

“You too.” She briefly gripped his hand, and then they headed out, Dean tagging along behind Sam, annoyingly.

“So, you excited about the hunt?” Ever since he’d made that comment about Sam being a murderer, he’d been extra accommodating, despite both Mary and Sam giving him the cold shoulder. Honestly, Sam just wanted to punch the guy and get it over with.

“I get the job done,” Sam said shortly. He went silent, approaching the vampire’s lair. “Ready, and—“

Instead of bursting in and surprising the vampires, the door suddenly swung open. Sam tried to fall back and recoup, but the group of vampires that emerged were armed with guns.

“This is so cute. Little hunters, trying to take us on.”

“How did you know about us?” Sam hissed. He didn’t bother struggling as two of the large vampires approached him, grabbing his arms. If he stalled, maybe his mom would catch up to them.

“Please. You hunters are so obvious. Mark?”

Sam blinked, uncertain what the vampire was talking about, until another vampire—one named Mark, apparently—approached with a cloth, and covered Sam’s mouth and nose with it. The sickly smell of chloroform filled Sam’s nostrils, and the last thing he heard was Dean’s voice yelling something.

He woke up nauseous, a typical side effect from chloroform. Sam shifted minutely, feeling shackles around his ankles and wrists.

“Sam,” Dean hissed. “Are you okay?”

There went Sam’s plan to silently catalogue his surroundings. Sam sighed, opening his eyes and looking over at Dean, similarly trussed up. Thankfully Mom hadn’t been captured as well, and judging by the slight smell of pine needles and wooden floorboards, they had been taken somewhere else. Most likely, the vampires had used the warehouse as a decoy.

“Sam,” Dean whispered again.

“Shut up.” Sam glared at him. “I’m concentrating.”

“On?”

Sam yanked, feeling his thumb dislocate. He held back the grunt, wiggling to get his hand out.

Dean looked a little pale. “Did you just—“

“Well, our little hunters have woken up.” The vampire came sauntering in at the exact wrong moment. Two more minutes, and Sam might’ve had a chance.

“We’ve been getting a little bored. And a little hungry,” the vampire said. “The two of you have a choice. Who goes first?”

“Him,” Sam said, immediately. He ignored Dean’s outraged and betrayed expression, focusing on the vampire. “Eat him, first. I’m sure he tastes better.”

“Ruthless, aren’t you? I know a troublemaker when I see it.” The vampire leaned close. “I think we’ll take you.”

Sam tried to take his chance when the vampire undid his shackles, but unfortunately, the myths about vampires being supernaturally fast and strong were true—the vampire took a firm grip of Sam’s arm, yanking it behind his back and keeping a hand tight on Sam's throat. Sam could hear Dean protesting as he was led from the room, into a room that smelled mainly of blood.

“Fresh meat!”

The vampire holding Sam laughed. “We want to make this last, boys and girls. Don’t be too greedy.”

He smirked at the first vampire who approached, a girl who looked like she was in her twenties, except for ancient and cruel eyes.

“Aren’t you feisty,” she murmured.

“Are all vampires ugly, or was it just your usual face before you were turned?” Sam shot at her.

She snatched up his arm and sank her teeth into the tender flesh of Sam’s inner arm. The worst part, Sam noticed clinically, was the sucking. The sting of initial pain was exacerbated by the force of continued blood drinking.

“He tastes different,” she murmured, lifting her head. She was distracted, pupils blown, and Sam took his chance, kneeing her in the stomach and yanking himself out of the other vampire’s grip.

All he did was make the other vampires converge on him. One manipulated a chain, swinging it meaningfully. “I think this one wants to play,” he sang.

Sam grit his teeth. He had gone through this before. This time would be no different.

* * *

Dean pulled fruitlessly against his shackles. Shackles. Like they were in medieval times or something.

There was a sudden yell from the other room and Dean stiffened. Sam’s voice sounded pained. If the vampires drained Sam dry, what would Dean do? He would be next on the buffet, that was for sure.

Dean couldn’t help flinching as the door opened again. His eyes flew up to meet the vampire named Mark and then down to the body he was dragging along.

“Sam,” he whispered. “Is he dead?”

Mark snorted. “Can’t imagine why you care what happens to this guy. He was the one who sold you out, after all.”

Dean didn’t bother responding, focused on his brother. Sam’s shirt was gone, and his entire torso was mottled with strange bruising and welts. Dean looked for blood, but only found one place on his arm that looked bitten.

The vampire put the shackles back on Sam’s ankles and wrists. Dean waited warily until the vampire left the room before he moved forward, to the end of his own chains.

“Sam,” he whispered, gripping his shoulder. “Wake up.”

Sam groaned, head lolling to face Dean.

“You’ve got to help me out here,” Dean whispered. “Where are you hurt?”

Sam squinted at him. “Where am I not,” he rasped.

Gently, Dean tried to shift Sam so that he was closer to Dean. “They only bit you once?”

Sam snorted. “Used the same spot more than once,” he slurred. Dean noted his closing eyes worriedly. He thumbed one eyelid open, taking in the unfocused gaze.

“Hey, Sam, you need to hang on for me, okay? Who’s the awesome hunter here, huh?” Dean ripped off a front panel of his flannel shirt, wrapping it tightly around Sam’s bitten forearm. “If you don’t stick around, I might cry, and you don’t want to see that. It’s gross, I’ll get snot everywhere.” Sam must’ve been depleted enough to let his defenses down a little, as Dean caught the slight curve of his lips. “Okay, let me check you out.”

“Gross, man, we’re brothers.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Sure, you get tortured and suddenly you’re a comedian.” He skimmed his hands down Sam’s sides, noting when Sam flinched the most. There were thick scars underneath the bruises and lesions, but Dean forced himself to ignore them. “I take it you offered me up in order to take the fall.”

Sam closed his eyes. “You think pretty highly of yourself,” he mumbled.

“You ain’t fooling anyone,” Dean returned. There was nothing he could really do to help Sam, except for offer a little distraction from the pain. He shifted, carefully lifting Sam’s head and shoulders.

“What are you doing?” Sam asked through tightly-clenched teeth.

“Trying to help.” He settled Sam in his lap, putting Sam’s bitten forearm down against his leg. “That better?”

Sam obviously wasn’t able to move, but he shifted like he was thinking about trying to get away from Dean. “I don’t need your help,” he grit out.

“You were just beaten and drained by vamps. I’m pretty sure you do.”

Sam wouldn’t look up and meet his eyes. “I’m fine. It’s just like last time, I can handle it,” he muttered, almost to himself. Dean stiffened.

“Last time?” he asked.

Sam ignored his query, eyes closing. Dean let him rest.

A couple hours later, the door opened, slamming against the wall violently. Sam started, and Dean held him down before he hurt himself.

“I’m just saying, it’s never a good idea to hold onto hunters for long,” one vampire was saying to the other.

The other snorted. “Evan, hunters don’t care about each other. No one’ll miss these two.”

Their focus turned to the two of them. Dean straightened his shoulders, leaning over Sam as much as possible.

“Aw, look at them, they’re so cute I might vomit,” Evan said. “James, go get the camera.”

“You guys here to make jokes or eat us?” Dean growled.

The one named James snorted. “If we drained this one anymore today—“ he kicked Sam’s foot “—he’d be a goner. And you look like one good session would kill you off. Nah, you two can get up your strength for playtime tomorrow.”

Evan tossed some beef jerky and a bag of chips at Dean, while James stalked a little closer, grinning down at the two of them. Dean tried to look as fierce as possible. Judging by the complete lack of response, he was probably unsuccessful.

“I can’t wait to drink you again tomorrow,” James murmured. He reached out, gripping Sam’s jawline and pulling him up a little, a greedy and lascivious expression on his face.

Dean batted ineffectively at James. “Leave him alone,” he growled.

The vampire carelessly patted Dean’s shoulder. “You’ll get your turn. For now, get this kid to make some more delicious blood for us.” He dropped a water bottle down next to them. Dean bared his teeth at them as they both retreated, laughing.

He glanced down at Sam. “Nice guys, huh?”

Sam slowly put his head back down in Dean’s lap, his body stiff. “Mom’ll save us,” he mumbled.

“I hope you’re right.”

* * *

“I am going to ask you this one more time before I lose my patience.” Mary crouched down next to the chair. “Where are my sons?”

“Long dead,” the vampire rasped. “Drained dry. You should give up now, before my family finds you.”

Mary casually slid the knife across the vampire’s collarbone. “Wrong answer. You know, I guess you guys are the undead, or whatever, but circulation is an issue, y’know? Lose too much blood, and you’ll be dead like the rest of us.” She shoved the knife in deeper, relishing the yell that came from the vampire. “And it hurts, doesn’t it,” she said.

He cursed at her, in a predictable and unimaginative fashion. Mary stood, tugging out the knife absently. The vampires had obviously not known about the number of hunters coming after them, or they would have immediately come after Mary. They had probably thought that Sam and Dean were a hunting duo, which was a pretty common way to go about hunting.

Mary sighed, going over to the table. The scarce research on vampires made it difficult to figure out what weaknesses they might have.

Of course, maybe after extreme pain, bribery would be the way to go.

“All that loss of blood,” she murmured. “It’s gotta be driving you crazy, the need to get blood.”

The vampire pulled against the ropes. “So?” he hissed.

Mary approached again, drawing out a new and clean blade. She slid it carefully across the back of her forearm, noting the vampire’s pupils dilating and respirations picking up speed. “So I was right,” she murmured. She got closer, and the vampire’s true teeth extended, mouth involuntarily twitching open. “And you want this blood, don’t you?”

The vampire had become a mindless beast, whimpering. Mary curled her lip in disgust.

“Now tell me. Where’s the hideout?”

The vampire squinted, obviously trying to resist the lure of blood. “No, I won’t—“

Mary let her blood drip onto the vamp’s forehead. He snarled.

“North of town, cabin, deep in the woods.”

“Numbers?” Mary let a drop fall into the vampire’s open mouth.

“Eleven of us.” He finally focused on Mary. “You won’t save ‘em.”

Mary took a step back, picking up her favorite knife. “Watch me,” she said, and sliced off the vampire’s head.


	9. Chapter 9

Dean must’ve dozed off, because the next thing he realized, he was jolting awake. Cold and hungry, he squinted in the weak light coming in through the window.

“Are you awake?” Sam’s voice was a terrible rasping sound, and Dean looked down to find Sam hadn’t moved from his slouched position against Dean.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to fall asleep,” Dean whispered. His legs felt numb, and he gingerly shifted, accidentally jostling Sam. “Sorry.”

Sam wasn’t paying attention to him, focusing on his shackled hands. “We need to get out of here,” he muttered.

Dean watched him uncertainly. “You have any ideas?” One of Sam’s hands was swollen and bruised from his previous attempt to get out.

“A few.” Sam let his hands fall back down to the ground. “Help me up.”

Dean looked at him dubiously. “I don’t think that’s possible, man. You’re pretty messed up.”

“You sit in that position any longer and you won’t be able to move. Or run.” Sam gave him a look from upside down that managed to still look commanding.

Dean touched Sam’s face, not missing his brother’s flinch. “You’re made up of bruises instead of skin,” he argued, “and lying on the ground isn’t going to help that.”

“I’ve had worse,” Sam said blandly. He pushed himself up to a hunched over position, startling Dean.

“You’re an idiot,” Dean said, as Sam swallowed, entire body shaking. Dean gently put his hands on the least bruised places he could see and tried to support the guy.

“I need you to massage me.”

Dean blinked, and tilted his head to stare at Sam. “Did you say what I think you just said?”

Sam’s head bobbed up and down. “Gotta be able to move. You need to break up the stiffness.”

“Dude, that sounds like a terrible idea.”

“Just do it,” Sam snarled.

Dean obeyed, avoiding the scabbed over welts and trying to focus on the primary joints. Older scars made awful, thick ridges underneath his palms, and Dean wanted to avoid them as well. Each wounded sound that fell from Sam’s lips made him cringe, and by the end of it, Sam was panting and sweating profusely.

“You’ve been talking like this happened before,” Dean broke through Sam’s pained noises. “Is that where all these scars came from?”

From the little Dean could see of Sam’s face, his brother’s face become completely flat and unemotional. “Yes,” came the short reply.

“What happened?”

“I was taken and tortured. Mom saved me. That’s all.”

Right. Maybe a change in topics. Dean shifted, his chains clinking softly as they dragged across the floor. He knelt, getting his arms underneath Sam’s armpits. “Okay, easy does it.”

“Wait, what are you—“

“You need to lean against something. Come on.” Dean gently lifted Sam, propping them both up against the wall so that Sam’s back was against his chest.

“Why are you doing this?” The question was quiet, so quiet that it almost seemed like Sam was talking to himself.

“You're my brother,” Dean murmured. “And I’ve been missing from most of your life, so I gotta make up for lost time now.”

“I sold you out,” Sam said. “I’ve been treating you like dirt. Why—“

“Look, man, don't make me say it again. You’re my brother. Plus, that selling out moment was only to make sure the vampires took you instead, don't even lie.” Dean lifted up Sam’s bitten forearm, examining the bite mark. It seemed swollen and red. “This hurt?”

Sam’s head turned, his sharp cheekbone digging into the top of Dean’s shoulder. “You’re strange,” he mumbled.

“Says the guy with an extensive knife collection.”

“My knives are awesome.” Sam’s hair brushed Dean’s chin. “Here’s the plan.” His voice stayed on the exact same low register. “The vampires will take me. When they do, I’ll pretend to collapse, snag the keys, and then toss them towards you. You need to make sure they don’t make any noise when you catch them. Get out of this place, and go find my mom.”

* * *

In the silence that followed Sam’s plan, he managed to tilt his eyes, dizzily looking up at his brother’s face. Dean was pale, but thankfully still uninjured, which raised his chances of survival.

Finally, Dean responded. “That’s a terrible plan. They’ll drink you dry while I’m gone.”

Sam shook his head, feeling Dean's thick leather jacket slide against his hair. “They want my blood for longer. They’ll keep me alive.”

“Sam, you can’t just—“

There was a clanging noise from outside their room. Dean stiffened, curling an arm around Sam’s ribs. Sam weakly tried to shove it away.

“Breakfast time.” A girl came in this time, keys swinging from her fingertips. Sam remembered her taking her time, drinking with slow licks and weirdly nibbling on his arm.

Sam let himself be dragged from Dean’s grip, despite Dean's protests. Barely two steps away, Sam let his knees give out, snagging the keys before his knees crashed painfully against the wooden floorboards. As the vampire cursed at him, Sam used the last of his strength to toss the keys backwards, straight towards Dean.

Dean was smart enough to rattle his chains and curse at the vampire to mask the sound of the keys. Sam nodded approvingly as he was dragged into the other room.

He bit back a whimper as his sore arms were dragged above his head, chains threaded onto a hook.

“How long are we going to drag this out?” Evan asked. He eyed Sam like he was nothing more than a piece of meat.

“Lucy, you want first go again?”

Lucy was probably the leader. Sam eyed her wearily as she approached. “If you have to feed so often, how come we haven’t noticed you before?” he mumbled.

She smirked at him. “We can go for weeks without drinking. We simply drink whenever there is the opportunity to do so.”

“Great.” Sam could do nothing more than wiggle a little on the end of his hook. “You mind getting this over with?”

Frigid fingers swept down his back. Sam tensed automatically, but no pain followed.

“You have a lot of scars already. It would be a shame to ruin this, since someone obviously took a lot of care on your back. So James here is going to spice things up a little.”

Sam had no warning before a current of electricity ran through his body.

“Writhing like a fish on a hook,” Lucy said with satisfaction.

“Go to hell,” Sam gasped.

She pouted at him. “That wasn’t very nice.” Her teeth extended, and she bit down on Sam’s inside of his upper arm, forcing a yell from between his teeth. The instant she stopped drinking, the electricity came back, in a vicious pattern that seemed to have no end, until Sam was finally left feeling light-headed and barely conscious, body jerking in aftershocks.

The voices around him were buzzing, strange and distorted. “We need to save him for at least one more feeding.”

“It’s a pity we can’t hang onto him longer. That blood . . . can you taste that power?”

“I won’t need to feed for another month.”

Sam felt his arms being tugged and released. He fell with little grace, body crumpling on the blood-stained floor.

“Evan, take him back in and prep the other one. We need to make sure he’s in good condition as soon as this one’s drained.”

Sam felt almost distant from his own body as he was tugged across the floor, bound hands in the strong grip of a vampire.

There was an outraged cry, and Sam’s arms were dropped. He lay still, breathing through a blood-filled mouth with difficulty.

Frantic movement surrounded Sam, and he could hear the vampires yelling, leaving the building.

There was a strange vibration, and screams.

“Well, darling, it looks like it’s just the two of us.”

Sam blinked through his crusty eyes, seeing the fuzzy outline of James. He had no voice to respond.

“Lucy’ll be furious if I kill you now, but your blood will give me the power to take over, finally.”

Strong hands lifted Sam. He weakly tried to twist, but his battered body would no longer obey his commands.

“This won’t hurt for too long,” James said, his voice almost soothing. “Just relax.”

A stabbing pain drove into the junction between Sam’s neck and shoulders. He gurgled, fingers scrabbling against the floor, but there was nothing he could do as the world began to fade.

* * *

Mary swallowed, her unease making it difficult to stay still. Beside her, Dean was also twitching, in a constant state of stress ever since he had escaped and found Mary.

“Can’t we go in now?” Dean asked. “They’re torturing him, drinking his blood.”

“There are too many of them,” Mary said. “We wouldn’t be able to do anything. This plan will work.”

Yells came from inside the cabin. Mary stiffened, glancing at Dean. “You ready?”  He nodded, the set of his face reminding Mary sharply of John when he had first come back from deployment.

The vampires burst out of the cabin, running through the front door in a pack.

Mary flicked the switch, and the explosion rocked the trees around them. Sam had been saving their explosives. Hopefully he would forgive her for using them up.

“Now!” She darted forward, shotgun raised. The first vampire that came along, Mary blew its head off. At least five of them had been taken out by the explosion. Beside her, Dean wielded his machete, slicing through a vampire trying to rise from the ground.

They became a sinuous team, blasting their way through the vampires in their way. Once they made it through the front door, Mary let Dean take the lead, following him deeper into the once-magnificent cabin.

Dean saw Sam first, and let out a cry of outrage. Mary snarled as well, once she saw the vampire bent over Sam, mouth latched onto his neck.

Mary wasn’t sure who killed the vampire, as she unloaded two shells and Dean darted forward, hacking brutally at the vampire.

Only once the vampire was in pieces did Mary focus on her baby.

“Sammy,” she cried, swooping down to press a hand down against his bleeding neck and two fingers to his carotid. His pulse was faint, barely there. Mary shuddered, assessing the rest of his wounds.

“Mom, what do I—“

Mary barely registered that Dean called her mother for the first time. She met his gaze. “Quick, get me something to staunch this flow and then get something to help carry Sam. We need to get him to a hospital.”

Dean didn’t argue, leaving only to return in a moment with supplies.

Mary gently palmed Sam’s face, turning him to her. “Sammy, baby, wake up, please.” She silently apologized, digging her knuckles into his sternum. The groan was so faint, Mary wasn’t sure she actually heard it.

“There’s an old sled,” Dean dropped to his knees beside her. There was new blood on his hands, possibly from a vampire they had missed the first time through. Mary nodded, tying the makeshift pressure bandage tight.

Between the two of them, they managed to get Sam onto the sled, his blood staining the old wood red. Mary would have to return to the cabin to burn everything, but the only thing that mattered at that moment was Sam. The instant they got to the road, they called 911.

Mary knew death; by the time the ambulance arrived, Sam was hovering near the edge. Terror left no room for conversation as she followed behind the ambulance, Dean silent in the passenger seat.

The usual charade—filling out the forms, patiently waiting for the doctors—set Mary’s teeth on edge.

“I swore it wouldn’t happen again,” she said. At her side, Dean’s bloodshot eyes came to rest on her. “I swore I would keep him safe. But every time—“ Mary clenched her fist hard enough that her nails pierced the skin of her palms.

Dean’s hand came to rest on her fist, uncurling her fingers. “He’ll be okay. Sam’s a tough kid.”

“He shouldn’t have to be,” Mary whispered.

Dean had no response.


	10. Chapter 10

Dean felt a little bit like he was intruding as he hovered by Sam’s bed; Mary was sitting on the edge, murmuring something to her son as Sam’s eyes struggled to stay open.

“That’s it, baby, wake up, you’re safe now.” Mary’s hand swept Sam’s hair out of his face. “Look at me.”

“Mom.” There was a heartbreaking desperation in Sam’s voice. “Here? Real?”

“I am right here,” Mary said.

“Dean?”

Dean blinked, surprised Sam would even remember he was there. “Hey, Sam.”

“You got away?” His question was slurred, and Dean’s throat felt tight.

“Yeah, man, thanks to you.” He dared to approach and place a hand on Sam’s arm. “You just focus on getting better, okay?”

“Mmm. Mom, you kill them?”

“Uh huh.”

“Good.” Sam’s eyes closed—his shadowed eyes and pale skin made him look almost dead. Dean shivered.

“That was close,” he murmured. “Does that happen a lot?”

“More than I like.” Mary’s shoulders dropped. “Sam has the tendency to be reckless on hunts.”

“Why?” Dean asked.

Mary sighed. “Sometimes to protect me. Other times because of what has happened to him in the past, and what he feels is wrong with him.”

“What do you—“

“Mom,” Sam mumbled, waking up again to blink at the two of them. “Mom we need to leave. They’ll check insurance soon.”

“You can use mine,” Dean offered.

“I already filled out the forms with the fake info,” Mary told him.

Sam sat up in bed, already disconnecting leads and whatever tubing the hospital had put into him with shaky, yet practiced, fingers.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Dean asked.

Sam put his feet on the floor and stood, face still frighteningly pale. Dean hurried around the bed to the other side, slinging his arm around Sam’s back. “Easy, man.”

“Mom, where are my clothes?”

Dean could feel Sam trembling in his grip. With his eyes, he begged Mary to move quickly.

There was a familiar ease in the way they escaped the hospital. Dean didn’t want to even think how many times Mary and Sam had been forced to go to a hospital and then book it out of there because of a lack of funds or insurance.

As they settled Sam down for the night, Dean pulled Mary aside.

“I want to give you something,” he said.

“Can it wait, Dean?” Mary looked back at Sam. “I need to monitor him overnight.”

“Here.” Dean passed over the card. “This is my bank information. I want you to take care of it.”

Mary frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that this is my life now, and I’m all in. All of my savings, whatever.”

Mary looked appalled. “Dean, you can’t—“

“—I can.” He quirked his lips into a smile. “After all, what kind of hunter would I be with one foot out the door?”

Mary looked like she wanted to argue further, but Sam grunted in pain, and she was distracted. Dean focused on unpacking his duffel. It was surreal, being shackled up in a cabin with vampires one day, and trying to remember where his toothbrush was the next.

After changing for bed, he stood in the middle of the room, staring uncertainly at the bed. Mary was asleep on the chair, slumped over next to Sam with her hand on his wrist. Dean carefully pried her grip free and carried her to the other bed. He hesitated, and then bent over, pressing his lips against her forehead.

“Sleep well, Mom,” he whispered.

Dean shut off the lights and settled into the armchair next to Sam’s bed. He carefully felt for Sam’s pulse, noting an increase in his breathing and sweat on his forehead.

“No,” Sam mumbled. “Please.”

Dean grimaced, gently gripping his brother’s shoulders. “Sam, wake up. It’s just a dream. Wake up.”

Sam’s eyes snapped open, unfocussed gaze panicked. “No, please, stop,” he whimpered. His hands pulled weakly at Dean’s. “Don’t hurt her.”

“Sammy, wake up,” Dean whispered. “It’s me. Dean. C’mon, man, you’re safe, I promise.” Sam shuddered. A tear rolled down his cheek, and Dean felt his heart breaking. He took Sam’s hands in his own. “Sam, I swear, they won’t come after you. I’ll take watch.”

“Not alone?” Sam mumbled. In Dean’s grip, his hands slowly lost their tension. “Safe?”

“Yeah, Sam. Safe.” Dean put Sam’s hands down, reaching up to cup Sam’s cheek. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

* * *

Everything became uncertain, for a while. Having Sam taken—again—shook Mary to her core. The last time, Sam had been young, vulnerable. Now, as a nearly fully-fledged hunter, to know that he could still be taken from her in such a way, made everything dangerous and terrifying. She took to triple-checking the salt lines, patrolling around the motel twice a day, and keeping a gun under her pillow instead of a knife.

What Mary hadn’t counted on was how Dean’s presence helped. The money he had given her was enough to keep them steady for a good long time, but beyond that, he became a stalwart presence at Sam’s side, giving Mary the opportunity to keep tabs on everything else.

“I can’t believe you haven’t watched this show!”

Mary heard Sam murmur something that made Dean laugh.

“Yeah, well, the A-Team is classic, man, you have to watch it.”

“You boys okay?”

Sam’s gaze latched onto her with a desperate swiftness. “Where are you going?” he asked.

“Just need to run some errands,” she said. Sam’s eyes narrowed—he probably guessed what Mary needed to do—while Dean watched the television.

“Be safe,” was all he said, smart enough to know he was still confined to the bed for at least 24 hours before he had leave to start whining about being able to run around again.

Mary nodded at them, locking the door behind her and setting out, the Impala grumbling as she drove through the backwoods paths.

The smell of death was pungent by now. Mary grimaced at the bodies surrounding the cabin, pulling on heavy duty gloves and a face mask. Clean-up was the worst part of hunting, aside from Sam getting hurt.

Mary made a pile of the bodies, and examined the cabin carefully. Were she to light it on fire, there was a chance it could spread to the surrounding trees. Instead, she went to the back of the car, and pulled out the chemical mixture Sam had come up with for taking care of . . . well, everything. It was acidic enough to eat through the remaining viscera, and Mary spread it generously across the floor where there was blood.

She finished her work by burning the vampire’s bodies and burying the bones. The sun started setting by the end, prompting Mary to pick up dinner on her way back.

There was something gratifying about seeing the people she loved relax at the sight of her. Dean smiled. “Get your errands done?”

“Uh huh.”

Sam’s more knowing gaze caught her. “Safe?” he murmured.

“Course. And I brought fried chicken.”

Sam wrinkled his nose. “Really?”

“And a salad.” Mary grinned. “What, you think I don’t know my son?”

Sam smiled, something that Mary saw far too little of. “Thanks, Mom.” He tried to get up, and Mary started forward.

“Don’t you even think about it,” Dean growled, blocking Sam’s way. “Sit down or I’ll knock you down.”

“Like you even could,” Sam scoffed, but it was a weak protest, and he sank down onto the bed gingerly. He glared at Mary. “What are you smiling about?”

“Nothing, nothing at all,” Mary said innocently. “Here’s your dinner, Sammy.”

He took the salad. “I know when you’re acting all squishy.”

“Squishy?” Dean looked like he was fighting a smile as well. “Like an octopus?”

“Both of you stop ganging up on me or I’ll get out of this bed and punch you in the face.”

Mary and Dean looked at each other for a moment, and then burst out laughing.

* * *

He struggled against invisible bonds, terrified as the knife lowered once again. Broken words fell across his lips. He could hear her screams, and forced himself to keep quiet under his own torture, just to make sure she didn’t go quiet, because if she went quiet, she was—

Sam jolted awake, gasping for breath and pain rippling through his body at the sudden movement. At his side, Dean shifted, waking up as well.

“Sam?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Sam whispered. He looked over to find his mom, breathing a little deeper at the sight of her asleep in her bed. She was fine.

“No, you’re not.”

Sam turned his attention back to Dean. “Go back to sleep, Dean.”

“No.” Dean kept his voice low, but it was demanding, insistent. Sam shivered, a little. “I know you aren’t dreaming about the vampires, because every time you talk in your sleep you mention ‘hurting her.’ Who’s ‘her’?”

Sam swallowed, hesitating. But after what they had been through together, Dean deserved to know. “Come on,” he muttered, going into the bathroom. Dean followed him, blinking bemusedly as Sam flicked on the light and closed the door. “Don’t want Mom to wake up,” Sam explained. He perched gingerly on the edge of the bathtub while Dean closed the toilet lid and sat there.

“Please, don’t . . . don’t interrupt me,” Sam said. “I want to go through this once and that’s it.”

“Alright.”

Sam took a deep breath. “Mom made a deal to save John’s life before they were even married. The result was that a demon came when I was six months old and fed me its blood. Mom was too late to stop it, and so that was when she left you and your dad behind and took me away.” He spoke in a clipped, emotionless tone, keeping things as straightforward as he could.

“What does the demon blood do?”

Sam laughed, humorlessly. “We don’t know. When I was fourteen, demons kidnapped me. They didn’t reveal anything about what the demon blood did, just tried to—“ Sam swallowed, “—tried to break me. They had a demon possessing a female in the other room, and she would scream, and they told me . . . they told me me it was my mom.” Dean whispered something, but Sam was falling too deep inside his own head to hear him. “That wasn’t the worst, though, the worst was when the screams stopped, and she was dead, and—“

“Hey, hey, easy.” Dean slid off the toilet kneeling on the grimy linoleum by Sam’s feet. “You’re okay. Your mom’s okay, she’s right out there, sleeping.” His hands rested on Sam’s knees, a point of contact that Sam wanted to throw off and cling to at the same time.

“They didn’t really have her, but I didn’t know that, and for a week they kept hurting me and telling me she was dead and I wanted to die and I couldn’t . . .”

Sam’s shaking hands were enfolded in Dean’s steady ones. “Easy, little brother. Come here.”

Sam found himself drawn into Dean’s arms—all his instincts to run away flared up, and he tensed, body protesting also from the pain of his injuries.

“I’m sorry for the things I’ve said in the past,” Dean murmured. “Especially about you being a killer. You’re strong, and I’m proud to know you as my little brother.”

Sam snorted wetly into Dean’s shoulder. “You’re such a girl,” he mumbled.

“Shut up, bitch.”

Sam pulled back slowly, wincing as his ribs—cracked from the vampires’ assault—protested.

“Let’s get you back in bed.” Dean was annoyingly considerate, and Sam hated it. Or rather, hated that he didn’t actually hate it.

“You suck,” he mumbled.

“Yeah, yeah.” Dean shuffled him into bed and pressed his hand against Sam’s forehead. “Go to sleep.”


	11. Chapter 11

“We’re taking things easy. That does not mean horsing around and getting us kicked out of the motel.”

Mary stood with her hands on her hips, glaring at the two of them. Sam, at least, looked sheepish, while Dean was unrepentant.

“I was just trying to give Sam a haircut,” Dean said.

Mary looked like she was fighting down a smile, and Dean tried to look completely innocent.

“The two of you are going to give me peace and quiet. Get outta here. And make some money, while you’re at it.”

Despite their rough housing, Dean felt cold, and snagged his jacket on the way out.

“How are we going to make money?” he asked Sam.

“Hustling. Or stealing.”

Dean frowned. “So the money I gave your mom . . .”

Sam shrugged. “Sure, we’ll use it. But it’s best to stock up whenever we’re good, otherwise we’ll find ourselves in a town where we can’t hustle or steal without getting hurt. Big place like this, we can slide in and out, no one notices.”

Dean made a face. “Aren’t there any other ways to make money?”

“Not particularly.” Sam approached the bar with a tighter step. “You play pool?”

“A little in college, but I’m not very good.”

Sam paused, looking Dean up and down. “Alright then. We’ll go in separately. You approach the pool table first, and hang out while I scout out targets. I’ll come along, you pretend to not know me, and I’ll challenge you. After I beat you, I’ll challenge the targets and start playing for real money. You watch my back and make sure no one figures out that we’re brothers.”

“Got it,” Dean said, a little uncertainly. Sam gestured with his head, and Dean entered the bar, nearly choking on the smoke. Once he regained his composure, he slowly headed over to the pool tables, finding an empty one and looking around uncertainly.

“Hey man, you play?”

Sam seemed like an entirely different person. He held himself with an almost-swagger, looking down his nose at Dean. “Um, yeah,” Dean said, uncertainly.

“How ‘bout a game? Say, for twenty bucks.” Sam leaned against the table, smirking at Dean.

“I guess,” Dean said.

It only took Sam ten minutes to finish Dean off. Dean managed to get a little into the play-acting bit, slamming down his money and stalking away. He grabbed a table nearby, gesturing at a waitress and ordering a beer.

The group Sam approached was mainly made up of frat boys, easily recognizable by the way they dressed and the type of beer they drank. Dean fought not to curl his lip in dislike. He had never joined a frat himself, preferring to stick with the guys in his major—they may have been complete geeks, but at least they weren’t losers.

Dean couldn’t hear Sam over the bar’s music and loud conversations, but he did notice the way Sam snagged an empty beer and pretended to act completely drunk.

The college kids glanced at each other and Sam with barely concealed smirks, probably planning on ripping Sam off. They lay down their money with zero hesitation.

Sam then proceeded to lose the game.

Dean glanced around the room uneasily. Sam had mentioned stealing, before. Was he planning on grabbing all the money and taking off? Why would he—

The table was set up again. Dean watched as they started another game. And put even more money down. Sam had guts, that was for sure.

“Hey there. You have a ride home? You came in here alone, need some company?” Dean glanced at the waitress and her obvious attempt to flirt.

“I’m in walking distance,” he said. “Don’t worry about it.”

“You at the motel?” She stepped closer.

Dean wasn’t opposed to playing a little fast and loose, but somehow he doubted that would go over well with Mary and Sam. “Sorry, sweetheart, not tonight.” He paid for the beers, and carefully watched Sam clean up the table, taking his money and swaggering out. Dean waited twenty seconds and followed, easing his way through the crowded bar and finally emerging to fresh air.

* * *

“Dude, how was that?”

Sam forced himself not to roll his eyes. “You’ll get there.”

Dean grinned, completely joyful and open, an expression that Sam had never been able to produce himself. “You gotta teach me those skills, bro.”

“What, are you one of those college boys now?” Sam rolled his eyes.

“Huh?”

“‘Bro,’ really?” Sam mimicked. “Let’s go live in California and go surfing, yeah bro, dude, homie?”

Dean shoved him playfully. “I’m just saying, you—“

“Hey, you!”

Sam whirled. It had been stupid, Dean following him out that soon. He should’ve had him wait.

“You tried to play us, huh?” the leader said.

“From where I’m standing, it looks like I did,” Sam retorted.

“Sam, don’t antagonize the guys,” Dean muttered.

Sam raised his eyebrows at Dean. “Like they could take us.”

One of the taller ones stepped forward. “Give us our money back and there won’t be any trouble.”

Sam laughed. “Yeah? Try and take it.”

There was something exhilarating about fighting the non-supernatural over something as silly as money. It was a test of skill without the excessive threat of death, and a way to try and use precision to knock down but not kill or seriously maim. Dean held his own against two of them while Sam danced between the three that had gone for him, striking a nose with his elbow, and then darting to the side to knee the other in the stomach, while the third tried to hit him but failed.

“Is that the best you’ve got?” he taunted.

The leader snarled and rushed at him. Sam dodged, and he went sprawling.

The whine of sirens split the air and Sam cursed. “Dean, run!” he called. He went off in a sprint, the opposite direction from the motel. He could hear Dean huffing behind him as he followed. The instant Sam saw the flashing lights he ducked to the side, snagging Dean and yanking him around the corner.

“Sam, you’re insane.”

“Just a little.” Sam waited until the police car passed before dragging Dean out of the alley, walking across the street and back in the direction of the motel. “Act casual.”

“Now I’m all sweaty,” Dean complained.

“You weren’t a jock in high school?” Sam asked. “You look the type.”

Dean side-eyed him. “Are you insulting me or complimenting me?”

Sam shrugged.

Dean blew out a breath. “Yeah, okay, I sort of was. I was tall enough that they—“

Sam snorted in amusement, looking down at Dean.

Dean scowled. “Just because you’re a freak of nature, doesn’t mean that I’m . . .” Dean trailed off, probably noticing how Sam had flinched and slid farther away from Dean. “Hey. I—I didn’t mean it like that. I was saying you’re tall. That’s it, man.”

The word freak had settled like a heavy weight on Sam’s shoulders. “Yeah, sure,” he said meaninglessly.

Dean cleared his throat. “Anyway, um, they wanted me for the basketball team. But I slacked off in college, so I’m pretty out of shape now.”

“You could join me in my runs,” Sam offered, after a moment’s pause.

Dean groaned. “At five o’clock in the morning? You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you?”

Sam managed to press out a little smile. They reached the motel room.

“Tell me you at least left them alive,” Mom said without looking up.

“I pity the fools,” Sam deadpanned, getting a grin out of Dean.

Dean asked, “so you always fight when you go out?”

Sam didn’t answer, aside from a brief smirk, settling down on the bed. “Another three hundred dollars, Mom.”

“Nice work, kiddo.”

Dean sat down, unlacing his boots. “I swear, it’s always cold in here,” he groused.

Sam scoffed. “Don’t be a gir—“ He caught Mary’s glare and changed mid-word. “—baby.”

Dean kept his jacket on, shivering dramatically. “Whatever, polar bear.”

* * *

While Sam and Dean had been out getting into trouble, Mary had made progress on uploading pictures of some of the supernatural beings they had killed. Sam had been working on an online database for some time, and for his birthday, Mary was planning on showing him a huge chunk of work she’d completed. As he approached the table, she erased her internet history and shut down the relevant files, locking them and trying to look innocent.

“You find us another hunt?” Sam asked.

Mary frowned at him. “You’re recovering.”

Dean shrugged off his jacket, finally, still grimacing at the cold. Mary wanted to make fun of him as well, but Sam had already taken care of that.

The lights flickered, and Mary looked sharply at the door. “Salt lines?” she asked.

“Intact,” Sam said. Not one for getting distracted, he continued his argument. “Mom, I just took out a bunch of guys without breaking a sweat. I can totally do it.”

Mary wavered. “I dunno, Sammy. We’ve been on such a good streak. You could sign up for some college courses or something.”

Sam rolled his eyes, dragging the laptop over to face him. “I swear, you’re a dog with a bone. Fine, I’ll find us a hunt.”

Dean slid across the bed, coming closer to the table. “Wait. Sam, you didn’t go to college at all?”

Sam gave him an unimpressed look. “I’m nineteen, man. Unless I’m mistaken, if I’d gone to college, I’d still be there right now. Who’s the college graduate here?”

Dean ignored the gibe, looking to Mary, who shrugged at him. “I tried to get him to apply, but he wouldn’t.”

“Aw, c’mon, man. You’d love college. All the research you do, it’d be a piece of cake to get through the classes. Why not?”

Sam looked away from his laptop. “Do you want me to list the reasons?” he asked, something sharp and brittle in his tone that made Mary cringe. “One, it’s expensive and I don’t have that kind of money. Two, it’s essentially a waste of money because I can learn everything I need to know at libraries or on the internet. And three, I’m a friggin’ good hunter and if I quit then more people would die.” He shut the laptop with a snap and retreated to the bathroom.

Mary sighed. “It’s a bit of a touchy topic with him,” she said. “Trust me, we’ve had some pretty big fights about it in the past.”

Dean bit his lip. “I mean, I get all of his reasonings, but there are scholarships. And it’s not like there aren’t other hunters, right?”

Mary nodded. “Yeah, and I’ve used those arguments. If you want to try, go ahead, but he’ll shoot them down.”

“How?”

Mary raised one finger. “Scholarships: impossible to get with what barely passes as a GED and without some kind of legitimate identity basis somewhere.” She raised a second finger. “While there are other hunters, it’s a pretty thin network. Sam may sound a little arrogant, but he is probably the best hunter under thirty.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Why under thirty?”

“Please,” Mary smirked, “Sam’s good, but he ain’t better than me.”

Dean barked out a laugh. “My dad would always say I had your sass whenever I went through my teenage years. Glad to see he wasn’t lying.”

Mary leaned forward. “So . . . he talked about me a little?” she asked, trying to keep herself sounding casual.

Dean smiled sadly. “Mostly when he got drunk. But I could always tell he missed you all the time.”

Mary didn’t let herself cry, usually. But tears pricked the corners of her eyes. To keep herself from breaking down, she turned back to the journal and flicked through the pages thoughtlessly.

“He always said you were the most beautiful woman he had ever seen,” Dean said.

“I’m sorry I never got to see him before he died,” Mary murmured.

“Me too.”


	12. Chapter 12

Sam had lived his whole life in a car. And sure, it was a nice car. And it was home. But that did not mean he needed to moon over it like a moron.

“Can we go?” he whined.

Dean stuck his head out from underneath the Impala. “Dude, go read a book.”

Beside him, Mom scooted out as well. “Or you could actually help for once,” she nagged.

Sam made sure to roll his eyes exaggeratedly. “And deprive the two of you from your time drooling over a car?”

“I’m not drooling,” Dean said indignantly.

Mom turned to him, looking offended. “You aren’t?”

Dean snapped his mouth closed. “I can’t win, can I?” he seemed to say with his expression.

“Mom,” Sam intervened. “When you two are done making out with the car, I’d like to talk about getting back into the hunt.”

“Fine. Give us an hour.” She slid back under, followed by Dean. Sam smiled once they were out of sight, turning and entering the motel room. He had been the one to suggest his mom and Dean work on the car, in the hopes of distracting them from focusing on Sam and making sure he was functional after the vampires. They both were annoyingly over-concerned with how he was dealing with it, or whatever. So, to help distract them, he had lined up the next hunt. He glanced at the television, just in time to see Buffy punch a monster in the face. If only hunting looked that cool in real life.

The television cut out, voices becoming garbled and static filling the screen for a moment before Buffy wandered off to do her thing. Sam warily stepped back, eyes flickering over the salt lines. It was a motel television, probably ancient, but still, it was better safe than sorry. Sam found the salt lines intact. Pastor Jim had needed their EMF meter, which left Sam without a way to verify if there was a ghost in the room.

“Sam, do you want some lemonade? There’s a stand just down the road, if you—“

Dean’s voice cut off. Sam turned, looking at his brother. “What?”

“Um, what are you doing?”

Sam looked down at his hand, filled with salt. “Checking for ghosts.”

Dean shook his head. “One of these days I’ll ask, and it’ll be something normal, I swear.”

“Good luck with that,” Sam muttered absently. He sniffed, but didn’t smell any ozone.

Dean flopped down on the bed. “Why would there be a ghost in here?”

“I’m just being cautious.”

“Paranoid.”

“Tomato, potato, whatever,” Sam muttered. His mom came in, and Sam set aside his concerns. “How do you feel about South Dakota?” he asked.

“To see Bobby? Or something else?”

Sam couldn’t help preening a little. “Haunted ranch.”

His mom grinned at him, approaching the table and dragging him down to kiss his cheek. “That’s my boy.”

“Um, do you two ride or something?” Dean asked.

“I don’t,” Sam said. He nodded at his mom. “She used to.”

“Worked a year on a ranch before I met your father,” she said. “Best year of my life.”

Dean spoke up. “Friend of mine owned horses, back in Kansas. Think we’ll be riding for this job?”

“I doubt it,” Sam said repressively. He tried not to hate how his mother and Dean turned in sync to look at him. It used to be that Sam and his mom were the ones moving as living reflections of each other. “The ranch isn’t really a ranch anymore, it’s been made into a bed and breakfast.”

“You totally tricked me,” his mom accused, punching him lightly on the arm. “Fine, let’s head out to the not-ranch job.”

Sam gave the television one more suspicious glance, but it failed to flicker again. Dean probably had a point. Sam was being totally paranoid. But to be safe—

“Mom, when are we getting our EMF back from Jim?”

She blinked, busy tying back her long hair and frowning. “Huh. I totally forgot about that. Kentucky’s pretty darn far from Minnesota, do we need it?”

“What’s an EMF meter?” Dean piped up.

Sam would be ecstatic when Dean finally stopped asking questions about every little aspect of hunting. “Electromagnetic field meter. Picks up spirit activity,” he said shortly.

Dean appeared to consider it. “I could probably put that together,” he offered.

It was only when Dean had moved off to do research on making an EMF meter that Sam muttered, “show off” under his breath.

Unfortunately, his mom heard and cuffed the back of his head in remonstrance.

* * *

She knew Sam was trying to divert her attention. She hadn’t heard him waking up in the night due to nightmares, but that didn’t mean that he still wasn’t recovering.

A hunt would help, she knew. That didn’t mean it was the best way to deal, since Sam tended to throw himself into a hunt with far too much carelessness after a bad hunt. Mary scanned the room, making sure they hadn’t left anything behind.

“Dean,” she called.

Dean shuffled in her direction, tinkering with Sam’s old walkman. “Huh?” he muttered.

“Hey. You.” Mary snapped her fingers in front of his face. “Pay attention.”

“Just because I’m your son by blood doesn’t mean you need to act overbearing and motherly,” Dean said, still focusing on the machinery in his hands. Mary could remember John being the exact same way with his projects.

“You think you’re too old for me to spank you?” Mary asked.

Dean finally looked up, scoffing. “You wouldn’t.”

Mary grinned, evilly.

Dean hesitated, before smoothly transitioning, “what did you want?”

“You pack your stuff?”

“Yeah.”

“You know we talked before about Sam being reckless,” Mary said.

Dean’s brow furrowed. “Yeah, why?”

“I get the feeling that he’s on edge right now. Help me watch out for him?”

Dean nodded. “Of course.” He slid the half-demolished walkman into his pocket, picking up Mary’s bag. “Ready to go round up some horses?”

“I wish.” Mary forced a smile onto her face as she saw Sam. “Ready, kiddo?”

“I’ve been ready, you two have been taking forever,” Sam said. He swung himself into the driver’s seat, revving the engine.

“Easy on her,” Dean said. “We just tuned her up.”

“Great, now you’re personifying the car too,” Sam muttered. He switched the radio over to some classical music, and Mary cringed.

“Really?” she asked.

He glared at her, and she subsided.

A second later, the radio went out and then flipped back on. Mary met Sam’s gaze.

“That’s the second time electronics have been on the fritz,” her son said.

“We did mess around with the wiring a little this afternoon,” Dean said. “Sure it isn’t that?”

Sam’s face twisted a little, but he backed the car out. “Finish up that EMF meter,” he said. “Then we’ll see.”

The classical music continued to trill away. Mary slumped in the passenger seat. How on earth had her son eded up with such a radically different taste in music than the classic rock he’d grown up listening to?

Mary drifted off to sleep before she knew it, waking up to find Sam prodding her out of the car.

“Did you play that music to get me to fall asleep?” she asked, yawning.

Sam smiled, the small secretive smile she rarely got to see out of him. Mary nudged him affectionately before getting out of the car.

“Dean, c’mon,” Sam said.

“One second.” Dean was still bent over the now-remodeled walkman. “Ha. There.”

The EMF meter let out a high pitched whine. Sam went stiff, hand going to his pocket. “Did you actually make it right?” he asked.

“Pretty sure.” It continued to whine and Dean looked at them. “Does that mean there’s a ghost?”

“Mom?” Sam asked uncertainly. “We’ve never had anything like this happen.”

“You steal anything from a grave?” she asked him.

Dean looked at them wildly. “You do that?”

Sam shrugged, while Mary flushed a little. “Some people leave money with the bodies. It’s not like they use it.”

“We’re talking about this, after we figure this out,” Dean said sternly.

Abashed, Mary tried to change the subject. “Okay, so it’s not the car, obviously.” She hated bringing it up, but— “Sam, there is that satanist you killed. Did you hang on to anything from that? Did his blood get on you?”

Sam paled. “I don’t think so,” he said. “I didn’t . . . No, nothing.”

Mary caught Sam’s eye. “Bobby,” they said, simultaneously.

* * *

Dean had expected someone Mary’s age, maybe a little younger. From what he had seen so far of hunters, it seemed like a business kept up by a strong, youthful generation. So when he saw Bobby, he was a little thrown. An older man with a business eerily similar to Dad’s and a beer gut was not what he had expected.

“Sam, boy, you need to stop growing already.” The man pulled Sam in with one arm, and wonders upon wonders, Sam let himself be hugged. Dean didn’t bother stepping forward, waiting until his family introduced him.

“Bobby, this is Dean,” Sam said.

Bobby’s glance was critical, and for a somewhat harmless-looking guy, he could also look a little scary. Dean managed to step forward and extend a hand. “Nice to meet you,” he said blandly.

Bobby’s calloused hand gripped his tightly. “Likewise. Now, what’s the problem?”

Dean backed up as Mary and Sam explained the issue to Bobby. The man nodded at all of them.

“Go exercise those research skills of yours, idjit,” he said to Sam, almost fondly. “I got some section on revealing ghosts, should be a ritual buried in there somewhere.”

Sam darted off into the house, leaving Bobby, Mary, and Dean. Bobby looked to Mary, next. “How much do you want a hot shower?”

“Thank you,” she groaned. “I owe you a blueberry pie.”

“You better pay up.” Bobby watched her go into the house as well, before turning to Dean. “You were a mechanic, once?”

“Yeah,” Dean said warily.

“Then c’mon.”

Dean didn’t mind working on cars, though he would much rather have been working on the ghost problem. Still, getting guts deep in a car’s engine was a way to decompress, and Dean relaxed as he fixed up an old Mustang.

It was only when his guard was completely down that Bobby gripped his shoulder. Dean blinked, looking up at the guy.

“You hurt Sam or Mary and I will burn you alive,” he said flatly.

Dean opened and closed his mouth, hesitating before saying, “look, I would never hurt them.”

“Yeah, well, I’m just sayin’ they’ve been hurt before, and it wears them down. That kid trusts you now, you break that and you’ll have a lot to answer for.”

Bobby turned, going back to tinkering on an engine. Dean cleared his throat. “So . . . you think he trusts me? I mean, it doesn’t really seem like it.”

Bobby grunted. “You ever seen him around a stranger before?”

“Sure, interviewing victims and stuff,” Dean said.

Bobby shook his head. “Around a stranger who knows about hunting, knows who he is.”

Dean blinked, trying to think back. “Well, no.”

“It ain’t about what he says to you. It’s about how he holds himself. You watch him around someone new, and he’ll be wound tight as a rattlesnake. He’s loose around you. Means he trusts you.” Bobby set down a wrench, turning to stare at Dean. “So I’ll repeat: don’t hurt him.”

Dean nodded, solemnly.

The door to the garage opened. “C’mon, Sam’s found something,” Mary told them. Her hair was hanging wet around her shoulders.

Dean didn’t run away, exactly. He just left the garage. Very quickly.

“What do you have?”

“Super easy ritual.” Sam had shoved a rickety table and chairs aside, with a circle of salt in the middle. He spoke without looking up from his reading. “It’s all about proximity, so this will summon the ghost directly, even without knowing its identity or having something tying it down. The only risk is if there were any other ghosts nearby.” Sam glanced up from whatever thick book he had been reading. “Bobby, are there any ghosts nearby?”

The man’s gruff voice answered. “Not on my watch, kid.”

Dean bit his lip. “Shouldn’t we have a shotgun with salt rounds before you do this?”

Sam flashed him a grin—a rare event—filled with pleasure. “Yeah, man, smart thinking.”

Dean was not a teenage girl with a crush. But he still felt a warm feeling in his stomach at getting Sam’s approval. He hurried out to the Impala, sifting through the arsenal and bringing back two shotguns, one for Mary, and one for himself.

“Bobby, you good?”

“Do it already.”

Sam chanted out a couple lines in some kind of language—the guy really should have gone to college and gone into languages, anthropology, or something—and tossed down a bag of herbs in the middle of the circle. There was a flash of light, and Dean held the shotgun ready, pointing it at . . .

The gun fell out of his hands.

“Dad?” he whispered.


	13. Chapter 13

Mary was frozen in place, as was Dean. She noticed, vaguely, that Sam was moving, but that didn’t matter, not now.

“John,” she whispered.

His spirit flickered in and out. Mary suddenly needed an anchor—she moved around the circle to stand next to Sam, who laid a gentle hand against her back, supporting her like he always did.

“Dad,” Dean said again, his voice thready and weak. Mary should have gone to stand by him, she realized too late.

“It might take a few minutes for him to communicate,” Sam spoke up. “I don’t think he’s quite got the hang of the corporeal thing yet.”

Dean stepped forward, and Bobby took action, pressing Dean back. “No, kid, don’t.”

And Dean . . . freaked. They hadn’t really seen Dean lose control before, except occasionally, during arguments. This Dean was lashing out violently, striking out indiscriminately against Bobby and Sam, who had darted forward to help while Mary watched, unable to move.

“Sorry, Dean,” Sam grunted, and slipped a choke hold around Dean’s neck until Dean’s struggles weakened and fell away.

John’s ghost grew more agitated, flickering and pushing against the barrier of salt. Mary swallowed, stepping closer to the line.

“Hello, John,” she whispered. “I never thought . . .” she trailed off. John’s ghost didn’t seem to recognize her, only focusing on Dean’s prone figure. Mary shook herself, stepping back and towards the other men.

“He’ll wake up in a few seconds,” Sam said. He looked to Mary, hazel eyes focusing on her. “Are you okay?”

“Perfectly fine,” Mary lied. “Is Dean going to overreact again when he wakes up?”

Sam shrugged, re-focusing on his brother. “Let’s find out.” He slapped Dean’s face, not un-gently. “Wake up, Dean.”

Dean groaned, blinking slowly. “What happ’n,” he mumbled.

“You had the brilliant idea of trying to hug your father’s ghost,” Sam said bluntly. “Care to relax and try again?”

Dean looked wildly to Mary, who softened. “C’mon, kiddo, sit up. Take a couple deep breaths for me, yeah?”

Dean nodded his head shakily.

“I’m good, I swear.” He looked over to his father’s ghost, paling again. “Did he say anything?”

“Not to me.”

Dean slowly stood, facing his dad. Mary stood next to him, feeling startlingly gratified when John’s gaze flickered to her.

“Dad,” Dean choked out. “Dad, can you hear me?”

John seemed to solidify further. “Dean,” he rumbled. His voice . . . Mary shivered.

“Why haven’t you . . . why haven’t you moved on, Dad?” Dean asked.

John flickered again. “You were alone, and I hadn’t warned you about—“ he looked directly at Mary. “—her.”

Dean glanced at Mary. “Warned me about Mom?”

John’s face grew stormy. “Don’t stay with her, Dean, she’ll get you killed, or abandon you. You can’t trust her.’

It was like acid was flooding her lungs, burning away Mary’s ability to breathe, to live. She distantly felt herself being supported by Sam, but couldn’t take her gaze off of John’s ghost.

“John,” she whispered. “I left to save you. I wanted to keep you safe.”

“Liar!” he hissed. His spirit violently darted against the barrier, disappearing before reappearing in the middle. “You left us behind! You—“

“Dad.” Sam’s voice cut through John’s yell. Mary and Dean stared at him as he stepped forward. “I’m sorry I never met you. But you need to let go.”

“I . . .” John moved a little closer. “Sammy?”

“Yeah.” Sam took another step forward, until he was right next to the salt line. “What’s holding you here?”

The ghost’s eyes moved over to Dean. Sam blinked, looking at John. “Dean himself? Or . . . his jacket?”

The way John flickered was confirmation enough.

“We can end this the hard way, or you can let go. Please. For Dean’s sake, just move on,” Sam said persuasively.

John looked once more at Mary—she didn’t know what he was seeing, but she hoped it was enough—and then at Dean.

“You deserve peace, Dad,” Dean whispered. “I’m fine.”

Mary opened her mouth, and then shut it. Nothing she could say would have any effect right now.

John kept eye contact with Dean for a long moment, before nodding. “Goodbye,” he said.

And he was gone.

* * *

Sam waited thirty seconds before allowing himself to begin clean up. Beginning with his mom.

“Why don’t you sit down.” He gently shunted her over onto Bobby’s lumpy old couch, brushing his hand against the side of her face. “Breathe for me, okay Mom?”

She nodded, and Sam turned to Dean, who looked similarly shell-shocked. “Dean, you too,” he commanded. Dean was docile under Sam’s grip, allowing himself to be settled down next to his mother. “Bobby, I think alcohol might help for these two,” he said.

“You got it, kid.” Bobby lumbered away, leaving Sam to sweep up the herbs and salt that littered the floor, keeping his hands busy to avoid thinking about what had just transpired.

“Here you go. I think you three better figure this out.” Bobby took the broom from Sam’s hands, replacing it with a bottle. Sam grimaced, moving into the living room and finding his mother and brother in the exact same position.

“You two okay?” he asked.

Dean’s laugh was almost maniacal. “What do you think?” He snatched the bottle from Sam’s hand, taking a swig without noticing the glass Sam offered. “So much for telling me Dad wouldn’t turn into a ghost, hey Sammy? Thanks so much for that.”

Sam winced—he had hoped Dean wouldn’t remember that. “I’m sorry,” he offered blandly.

There was real rage in Dean’s over-bright eyes. Sam hunched his shoulders, waiting for a blow. “Yeah, you’re sorry. You know I’ve gone months now thinking my dad’s at peace, that he won’t be like one of those poor schmucks you’ve taught me how to salt and burn, and instead I have to see him standing there because of my friggin’ jacket, and all you have to say is—“

“He hated me.”

His mom’s quiet voice cut through Dean’s tirade, leaving both Sam and Dean blinking at her.

“Mom—“ Sam started.

“Y’know, I always dreamed of going back home, seeing John again. When you were a baby, sometimes it was so hard, trying to make sure you were safe and trying to fight evil. I would lie in bed, and you would be crying in my arms, and I’d think . . . John would open the door, and he’d look angry, but then, he’d see you, and he wouldn’t be able to frown at you giggling and pulling on my hair. And he would ask why we were there, and I’d say sorry, and then he’d just hold me. That’s all I wanted.” Mom’s voice broke. “I just wanted to be forgiven.”

Sam clambered himself over the coffee table so he was kneeling in front of his mom. “He loved you, Mom. And if he had known everything you sacrificed, he would have forgiven you.”

Tears were streaming down his mother’s face. “I told myself that for nineteen years, but now—“

“He loved you,” Dean said. His voice was rough with emotion, and he wouldn’t look at either Sam or Mom. Sam waited silently. “He was hurt, but he would sometimes tell me that he thought you must’ve had a reason, he just wished he knew what it was.” Sam’s brother fell silent. With jerky movements, he stood, startling the two of them. “I need to go . . . out. I’ll be back,” he said haltingly. Sam watched him go over to Bobby and ask something quietly, probably where the nearest bar was.

“You should go with him,” Mom rasped. “Make sure—“

“I’m staying right here with you, Mom,” Sam said. “You need me. And it’s the least I can do after everything you gave up for me.”

His mom frowned at him. “Sam. Don’t take . . . what I said, I didn’t mean that I regretted any of it.”

Sam smiled sadly. “I know that, but you can still allow me to take a little responsibility for all of it.”

“No, I won’t.” Mary palmed the side of his head, and Sam let himself relax into her gentle touch as her fingers gently combed through his hair. “You’re so strong, Sammy. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Ditto,” Sam murmured.

“Okay, enough of this chick flick, why don’t you go after your brother. I don’t want to deal with hangovers tomorrow morning.”

Sam looked at her critically. “You sure?”

“Positive.”

* * *

The bar was dingy and dark, but Dean didn’t care. As long as they had alcohol, he could deal with anything. Bobby had told him it was a hunter’s bar—like that was a common thing. Dean hoped that it wasn’t some kind of gang nonsense, where hunters would get violent if threatened or invaded by an outsider. That would suck.

“Bad hunt?”

A couple guys, probably a bit older than Dean, sat down next to him. The one in the seat to Dean’s right had a dark face set in a friendly and open expression. Dean found himself liking the guy automatically.

“You could say that,” he muttered. He tossed back the remainder of his whiskey, slamming the glass down again.

“Let me get you another.”

Dean grunted in appreciation.

“Gordon Walker.” The man offered his hand, and Dean shook it.

“Dean Winchester.”

“Winchester? Like Sam and Mary?”

Dean bared his teeth a little. “Yeah, of a sort. Only learned about hunting and the two of them a few months ago.”

“That must’ve been a change,” Gordon said sympathetically.

Dean barked out a sour laugh. “I’ll say. Some days I feel like this is all some kind of nightmare.”

Gordon nodded. “Family makes it even more difficult. My sister . . .” he trailed off. Dean took another swig of alcohol.

“You wake up one morning and your dad’s dead, and all you’ve got left is the psychotic family you never wanted,” he muttered darkly. “What happened with your sister?”

Gordon took a drink of his own. “Bitten by a vampire. Seeing her like that, a monster, it was awful.”

“I’m sorry, man,” Dean said. “I swear, it’s all so crazy. Sam’s got demon blood in ‘im, and what I’m thinking is that next thing you know I’ll become a werewolf, right? I mean, it’s like once you know about the dark, you become the dark.” He nodded at himself sagely.

“Amen, brother.” Gordon toasted him, tossing back the rest of his drink. “You staying with Singer?”

“How’d you know?”

“Winchesters always head there.”

“Huh,” Dean stared at his drink. “Yeah. I dunno, man, I just needed to get away.”

Even in his inebriated state, Dean could sense someone come up behind him. He glanced back, finding Sam at his shoulder, watching him with an unfathomable expression.

“Dean, you wanna head out?”

Dean frowned, unsure, but Sam’s hand tugged gently at his elbow. “C’mon, man. Mom might make a blueberry pie if we ask nicely.” The smile on his face looked pasted on, but Dean was feeling the effects of his drinking, and got up docilely.

“Pleasure talking with you,” Gordon said. He looked over at Sam. “Winchester,” he acknowledged.

“Gordon,” Sam said shortly. He guided Dean out, who pouted.

“Wait, I didn’t finish my drink.” Dean realized.

“I’m sure Bobby has enough alcohol to satisfy you,” Sam said. “Why were you talking with Gordon?”

“Bought me a drink,” Dean slurred. He was probably drunker than he realized. With that thought, Dean attempted to straighten up, shrugging his arm out of Sam’s grip.

“You should watch out for hunters,” Sam said. “A lot of them are pretty messed up.”

Sam’s tone was mild, but the statement was enough that Dean felt twitchy and annoyed. “Yeah? Oh, mighty hunter, do you have any other pearls of wisdom?” he bit out.

In the growing dusk, Sam’s face was a mask. “No,” he said, simply. “Get in the car.”

The simple command rankled, and Dean obeyed with ill grace, nearly braining himself on the car frame. He refused to speak to Sam on the way back, getting out of the car as fast as he could in his drunken state and making his way unsteadily into the house.

“Dean, are you okay?” Mary asked.

“Fine,” he grunted. “Where do I sleep?”

“You can share the upstairs room with Sam,” Bobby said.

Dean forced himself to make some kind of smile, and his face felt stiff and unnatural. Instead of trying to say anything else, he snagged the bottle of whiskey remaining conveniently on the coffee table. If he couldn’t drink at the bar, he might as well drink here.


	14. Chapter 14

“Kill me now,” Dean moaned.

Sam surveyed him, leaning against the bathroom’s entrance. “I take it you don’t deal with hangovers well.”

“I haven’t felt this crappy since freshman year at that halloween party.” Dean spit into the toilet, elbow precariously holding him up.

Sam tilted his head. “You drank illegally? I wouldn’t pin you down as the type.”

“Peer pressure, man. Gets you every time.” Dean’s head lifted. “Dude, whatever I said last night, I’m sorry. I get mean when I’m drunk, sometimes.”

“I got that,” Sam said drily. “At least you played nice with Walker. He’s someone you wouldn’t want as an enemy.”

Dean looked blankly at Sam. “Walker?”

Sam shook his head. “Don’t worry about it. You need a whole day to recover?”

“Two hours.”

“Alright. We’ll head out after that.” Sam rolled off of the doorframe, heading downstairs to find his mother in a similar state of a hangover.

“Sam, kill me now.”

“Funny, Dean said the same thing.” Sam rolled his eyes. “Maybe I should take care of this hunt by myself.”

“Ha. No. Give me a couple hours.”

Sam moved away. “Like mother like son,” he muttered to himself. He found Bobby making something that was probably supposed to be an omelet.

“They still throwing up?” Bobby asked.

“Yup.” Sam nudged Bobby out of the way, taking over at the stove. Bobby grunted at him and moved to the fridge.

“You doing okay?”

Sam laughed. “I’m not the one that drank way too much liquor last night, Bobby.”

Bobby didn’t laugh, eyeing Sam. “Yeah? Well, you’re the one who had to be responsible and crap. Don’t tell me seeing your daddy wasn’t difficult for you.”

Sam focused on keeping his hand steady as he flipped the omelet. “I didn’t know the man. You were more of a father to me than he ever was, even with how little I got to see you, growing up.”

He caught sight of Bobby’s face softening a little before he covered it up with a gruff, “yeah, yeah, well, he was still your dad.”

“You worry too much,” Sam said.

“Occupational hazard, with you and your mom throwing yourselves into danger all the time,” Bobby grumbled. “Go tell ‘em breakfast is ready.”

Sam reluctantly handed over the control at the stove. He collected his wayward family, depositing them at the kitchen table before moving off to get their hunting supplies together. He had enough time to get a run in, so Sam pulled on his ratty sneakers, slipping out the door.

Running had always been a decent way for Sam to clear his head. The pounding of his feet on the hard-packed dirt was a rhythm he could focus on, zone out and just run as far as he could. Sam ran for twenty minutes before he started feeling a prickling sensation up his spine.

Instincts were everything, in hunting. He didn’t stop running—he had to make sure if there was a threat, he didn’t alert the threat that he had noticed—but he did surreptitiously let his eyes run over the scenery. The line of trees along the road was enough of a threat that he came to a halt, leaning over and pretending to breathe deeply.

There was no movement. Sam sucked in oxygen, and then turned. He ran back to Bobby’s place at a dead sprint, feeling unnerved the entire time.

Bobby was outside, feeding his dog. He glanced at Sam.

“Short run?” he asked.

Sam shrugged. “We should leave pretty soon.”

“Y’all need back-up?”

There might’ve been some wistfulness in his voice. Sam hesitated, but shook his head. “Thanks, Bobby, but I think we’ve got this handled. There’s rumors of a werewolf pack in Minnesota though, after this hunt we’ll pick you up and head out.”

Bobby grinned. “Sounds good.” He glanced back towards the house. “You, uh, good with Dean?”

Sam nodded. “Took a while, but I trust him.”

Bobby acknowledged Sam’s comment with a grunt.

“If we don’t leave now, we never will.” Dean clomped down the porch, bag in hand. “I do not want to drive.” He still had the leather jacket on, and Sam looked away.

“I’ll handle the driving,” Sam said. “Mom coming down?”

“Yeah.”

Sam slid into the driver’s seat, waving at Bobby. Bobby rolled his eyes at him, going back inside the house. Dean got into the car, sighing as he let his head rest against the back of the seat. “I hate alcohol,” he declared.

Sam snorted. “Wanna hear some loud music?”

“No,” Dean pleaded. “You wouldn’t be that cruel.”

Sam merely grinned. As soon as his mom had fallen into the passenger seat, he pulled out of Bobby’s yard, onto the road again. After an hour of driving, he noticed a bright red sports car behind them. Sam kept his eye on it for a while, worried that they were being followed, but it eventually passed them. Sam ignored the feelings of paranoia. He needed to focus on the hunt.

* * *

Mary made herself sit up and put make-up on, as Sam drove the car. She would have to do the initial sweep, pretending to be an FBI agent. Dean was probably old enough to get away with being her partner, but people tended to look at Sam strangely if he tried to pretend to be an agent

Dean was slumped in the back, sunglasses over his eyes.

“Dean, are you doing okay?” she checked.

“When we get there, I need a coffee,” he declared.

Sam’s hand edged towards the radio, and Mary slapped it away. “Don’t even think about it,” she warned.

“Then you’d know how I feel every day,” he said, smile playing across his lips.

“Yeah, yeah, well—“ she noticed Sam’s eyes flicking to the rearview mirror. He had been doing it a lot, in the past few hours. “Something wrong?”

“Nothing,” he muttered. “Thought someone was following us at one point.”

Mary swiveled around, glancing out all of the windows. “They still behind us?”

“No. I’m being paranoid, Mom, don’t—“ Sam’s voice cut off in a yell. Mary turned, just in time to see the enormous tree falling in the road in front of them. Sam yanked the steering wheel to the side, sending the Impala into a sharp turn that almost made it. The car hit the tree. Mary felt the seatbelt yank against her chest, the car shudder as it took the hit before her forehead hit the dash and she knew no more.

She woke up feeling something pulling at her. She groaned, trying to get her uncooperative limbs to obey her, and the thing pulled at her again.

“S’m,” she mumbled. “S’mmy.”

The voice she heard was not her son’s, and Mary tensed, feeling pain radiating through her body. She forced her eyes open, staring up blearily at the figure above her. “Sam,” she gasped.

“Sorry, Winchester.”

Something sharp pricked her neck, and Mary faded away again.

The next time she woke up, it was to a pressure on her hand.

“Mom.” Dean’s voice was soft, fearful.

Mary opened her eyes, finding Dean’s green ones close to her and wide. “Dean, wha—“

“I’m so sorry,” he said.

Mary looked around. Her blood froze as she caught sight of Sam, tied upright in a chair, with a devil’s trap painted on the floor.

“Sam,” she whispered.

“He won’t wake up,” Dean told her.

Mary pushed herself into a sitting position. The tug on her wrists from handcuffs stopped her from getting anywhere, the chain of it around a pole, and Mary growled.

“Sam!” she barked. “Sammy!”

Her boy didn’t move, head hanging low on his chest. Mary snarled, yanking against the handcuffs, feeling it cut into her skin.

“Don’t,” Dean hissed. “They’ll hear you, and—“

On their left, a door opened. Mary straightened up, an exorcism on her lips.

Gordon Walker came in, followed by a couple other men.

“Christo,” Mary said, hoping to buy herself some time. “Adonai.”

Walker went over to where Mary and Dean were handcuffed to the pole. He crouched, looking at them almost sympathetically.

“I’m sorry, Winchester. But your boy is too close to the dark side this time, and you needed someone to step in.”

Mary blinked at him. “What are you talking about?”

The hunter jerked his head in Sam’s direction. “Sam’s evil. We’ll do our best to cleanse him if we can, but we might have to gank him. You understand.”

She bodily threw herself at Walker, stopped only by the handcuffs on her wrists. “He isn’t evil,” she spat. “You’re the evil one, taking him and using it as an excuse for torture.”

Walker shrugged, annoyingly nonchalant. “Has to be done. Dean told us about the blood. Blood doesn’t lie—I would know.”

“Sure, everyone knows about the way you butchered your sister,” Mary snarled. “What, did you think she was a demon too?”

Walker’s eyes flashed. He stepped forward. “She was turned into a vampire, and I did what I had to do.”

Mary kicked out, catching him in the groin. Walker toppled backwards, groaning, and the other hunters hurried forward, dragging him back.

She drew her lips back into a sneer. “You’ve made a big mistake, doing this,” Mary promised.

With a slow hobble, Walker moved over to the devil’s trap on the floor. The way he was looking at Sam . . . Mary swallowed down her fear. Her fear would do nothing to help Sam right now.

* * *

The concrete floor was harsh on the bruises from the car crash. The handcuffs pinched the thin skin around his wrists. His jacket wasn’t enough to block out the chill in the room. His stomach was aching with hunger.

But none of that mattered, because Sam was tied up, vulnerable, while hunters prowled around the edges of the devil’s trap. And it was all Dean’s fault.

Next to him, Mary practically vibrated with agitation, continually pulling on her handcuffs. Dean could see the blood dripping to the floor from where the metal had broken through her skin.

“We’ll start out with a simple exorcism,” Gordon announced. He picked up a bucket, and suddenly tossed the contents across Sam.

Mary snarled, but fell silent as Sam coughed, waking up.

“Wha—“ he slurred. Dean could see an obvious bump on his head from the crash.

The hunters began chanting. Sam’s gaze landed on Mary and Dean; his eyes widened comically, making him look even younger than he already did.

Fear, guilt, anger—it all bubbled up inside of Dean. Sam didn’t deserve this.

“Hey!” he called out, interrupting the jerks and their stupid chanting. “You guys trying to prove something? I’ve heard Sam use that Latin mumbo-jumbo a hundred times already. You’re wasting your time.”

“No,” Mary whispered. Dean glanced at her.

“What?” he murmured. “I’m trying to help.”

Her voice was a bare thread of sound, only audible to Dean’s ears. “This is harmless, if you get them to move on, they might hurt Sam.“

“He’s got a point. The kid’s probably has built up immunity,” one of them spoke up.

Gordon nodded. “Kubrick, go get that one ritual you were telling me about.”

The man—Kubrick—left.

“What are you trying to prove, Walker?” Mary asked.

Gordon shrugged. “I’m a hunter. Heard about your boy here, and felt it was my duty to step in.” He picked up a knife, the blade flashing in the meager light from the windows.

“You use that on him and you’ll be sorry,” Mary snarled.

Dean swallowed. It wasn’t in his nature to make threats, but for Sam . . . “Gordon! You think whatever you heard me say while I was drunk counts for anything? Sam’s clean.”

“Like you would know, little new hunter. No, what you told me was just a confirmation.” Gordon approached Sam, who stared at him defiantly.

“What, not scared of going inside the devil’s trap?” Sam asked.

Dean felt, rather than heard, Mary suck in a breath as Gordon gripped Sam’s jaw. “No,” the man breathed. “You’re a defanged snake.”

Somehow, Sam seemed to be remaining calm. “Well, then I’m not a threat.”

“Nice try.” Gordon slid the knife across Sam’s collarbone.“You’re still dangerous. It’s just hidden, isn’t it?”

Both Mary and Dean had yelled when Sam was cut. Sam himself had grit his teeth, but kept back any sound. Dean tried to meet his gaze, but Sam was looking stubbornly at Gordon.

“Gordon, I have it.”

The hunter turned, smile on his face. “Let the cleansing begin.”


	15. Chapter 15

Being captured by vampires had been bad, but at least Sam had—at least somewhat—been able to control and influence his situation.

This, being taken by hunters . . . they were humans. And Sam was the monster, something he had always feared would happen.

Worse, in Sam’s opinion, was that Mom and Dean had a chance of being harmed, not just because they were hunters as well, but because they were associated with him. Neither of them deserved to be tarnished by Sam in that way.

The one called Kubrick came forward, hesitantly offering the blank page to Gordon. Sam knew this ritual. He had once tried it on himself.

“You try and stop us, your family gets hurt, capeesh?” Gordon growled.

Sam nodded.

Gordon untied Sam’s right hand, keeping a firm grip on his knife as he did so. His earlier cut was convenient—he pressed Sam’s hand against his own collarbone, coating his palm in blood before slapping it down on the thick paper. Sam let himself be manipulated and re-tied down, eyes on his mom and brother, both standing under guard from one of Gordon’s friends.

Mom looked calm and still, but even from across the room Sam could see the way her nostrils flared, and how she seemed to be unable to stop herself from yanking on the handcuffs over and over. Dean seemed freaked, and something else . . . guilty? Sam couldn’t quite read him from so far away.

Gordon and Kubrick began chanting, tripping over the Aramaic as they lit the paper on fire. Sam resisted the urge to roll his eyes, instead attempting to look penitent. When Sam had been old enough to really start understanding what had happened to him as a baby, he had torn through all the lore available, trying out as many purification rituals as he could. None of them had done anything that was discernible for him—there was no reason why that would be any different for the hunters.

They finished the ritual with the traditional incense. Sam raised an eyebrow at Gordon.

“We’ll be back,” Gordon snarled. They left the room, the door closing with a bang. Sam sighed, leaning his head back and staring at the ceiling.

“Sammy? You doing okay?”

His mom’s voice supposed to be soothing, but in this situation, Sam would’ve given anything for her to be somewhere else. “I’m fine, Mom,” he said. “Have Dean take care of your wrists.”

Sam listened to the soft murmur of their voices as they obeyed him, the clinking noise of handcuffs.

Dean’s voice drifted his way. “Sam, I’m sorry.”

Sam raised his head, blinking at Dean. “What for?”

“I told them. When I was drunk the other night, I wasn’t thinking and I told them about the demon blood.”

“Oh.” Some of Gordon’s comments suddenly made more sense. “Don’t worry about it.”

Dean made a strange noise—sort of a mix between a snort and a sob. “You are ridiculous,” he choked out.

The door opened, making all three of them flinch. Gordon, Kubrick, and some others came in. Sam stiffened, but tried to make himself appear relaxed and strong, rather than weak and fearful.

“You find a new ritual?” he asked.

The solemn look on their faces did not bode well. Sam forced himself not to twitch as they loomed in close.

“We are sorry for this, Winchester,” Kubrick said. He set down some kind of altar on the floor.

“We’re not actually sorry, though. You deserve this,” Gordon amended, casting Kubrick a sharp look.

“You’ve obviously made up your minds, already. What are you going to do?” Sam asked. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his mom twisting in her handcuffs, eyes furious.

“We figure, demon blood in you, you’re meant to be a vessel for one of them. So, let’s fulfill that.”

Mary yelled out an obscenity, and Sam watched as she was gagged by one of the hunters. He was unable to stop a shudder. “You wouldn’t,” he said uncertainly, looking back at Gordon. “You don’t even know what demon will show up. How can you control—“

Gordon gripped his lower jaw, fingers digging into his flesh.

“As I said, Winchester. We’re not sorry.” Gordon leaned close, dark eyes flashing. “It was your destiny to turn bad. We’re just moving up the timetable a little.”

* * *

Mary had never killed another hunter before.

She swore now that the second she got free, that would change.

The edge of the gag bit into the corners of her mouth, but Mary ignored the minor chafing, continuing to yank on it as much as she could.

“Gordon, are you sure about this?” One of the nameless cowards spoke up, voice a little too loud for the amount of tension in the room.

“I’m sure,” Gordon snapped. “Keep your eye on the other two.”

Mary sneered at the man before re-focusing on her son. Sam, for all intents and purposes, looked at ease, maybe a little leery of Gordon, but that was all.

Mary knew better. Tension was written in the taut line of Sam’s neck, the slight twitch of his fingers, the sweat on his brow. Mary put her soul into her eyes, trying to project all the support she could. The sharp way that Sam’s gaze latched onto her let her know that at the very least, he knew she was there for him.

Gordon ripped away Sam’s shirt, baring his chest.

“Smart, kid, having this protection,” he commented. The knife glittered once more before he slashed across Sam’s anti-possession tattoos. Blood spilled down Sam’s chest, looking almost black in the warehouse’s lighting. Mary snarled through her gag—next to her, Dean cursed up a storm, which prompted the guard to gag him as well.

“You’re making a mistake,” Sam said.

“We’ll see,” Gordon said coolly. He tossed his knife aside, stepping out of the devil’s trap. “Go ahead, Kubrick.”

Mary could see the very moment Sam gave up. Sam wasn’t a pessimist by nature—as a kid, even though growing up as a hunter had been a struggle, most of the time he had been able to look past it and look at some of the better parts of life—but even the strongest optimist would give up in this circumstance. If Mary knew her son, he was probably steeling himself for the possession and for death, only hoping that Mary and Dean would get away.

She had nothing left for her son, except for prayer and a hope that this wouldn’t destroy them. The Latin rolled off of Kubrick’s tongue. Mary twisted and pulled as hard as she could against her bonds.

Kubrick tossed the flame down on the altar, finishing his chant. Mary held her breath, watching Sam carefully; his face betrayed nothing.

“Did it work?” Gordon demanded.

“It should have,” Kubrick said. He glanced down at the altar. “I followed the ritual exactly.”

“You must’ve screwed up,” Sam commented drily. Mary saw his left eyebrow twitch. That was his tell that he was lying. They hadn’t screwed up, and Sam knew it, and he didn’t know why he wasn’t possessed. If anyone knew demonic rituals, it was Sam, and Mary could tell he was confused.

“I didn’t screw up,” Kubrick muttered.

Gordon tossed holy water on Sam, frowning when it had no effect. “I don’t understand,” he said. “Should we try again?”

The sound of wrenching metal startled Mary. She twisted around, finding Dean standing up, free from the pole.

“Sit back down!” The guy guarding pointed his gun straight at Dean.

A second later, and the hunter was flying through the air, collapsing on the other side of the room.

The handcuffs snapped off of Dean’s wrists, and he tugged his gag down. Mary looked up desperately at him.

“You little hunters don’t ever quite get those rituals right,” he smirked. There was a cruel set to his face that Mary had never seen before. His eyes flashed black, and Mary’s worst fears were confirmed.

“No!” Sam shouted from across the room. “Leave him alone! Possess me! I’m the one you want, right?”

Kubrick and Gordon had raised their own weapons, but Dean raised his hand, tossing them aside like they were mere annoyances.

“Get out of him!” Sam cried. Mary could hear the terror in his voice. “Please. Take me instead.”

The demon stretched, grinning. “I don’t think so. This one was so full of fear, it tasted delicious. You, demon child, you’re far too brave.” It noticed Mary and bent down, Dean’s actions strangely jerky. “Look at you. What a pathetic excuse for a mother.” His hand twisted underneath the gag, pulling it off. His voice dropped, like he was telling a secret. “I want to hear you scream.”

Blinding pain hit her; the demon’s hand was extended above her body like a puppet master. Mary thought she could hear Sam screaming . . . or maybe it was her.

The pain bled away, and Mary slumped in her bonds.

“Oh, you think you’re so clever.” Mary could vaguely hear the demon snarl. It moved away, and she forced herself to open her eyes.

It was heading for Sam.

“No,” she croaked, but there was nothing she could do to stop the demon from going towards her son.

* * *

When the hunters had been summoning the demon, the only thing Dean had been able to do was pull against his bonds, fear running through him in waves. Near the middle of the session, he could taste something bitter in the back of his throat, and pressure started building up in his head.

“Hello, darling,” a voice like his own said. Dean tried to move his head to see who was speaking, but found himself unable to do anything. He tried to open his mouth, swallow, breathe—nothing. Awful, bloody images that weren’t his own crowded his mind, terrifying him.

“I’m running the show now,” the voice said again. Dean found himself standing, breaking free from the handcuffs. For a second, he had a moment of hope that he could get them all out of here, but then he was using powers he didn’t understand, throwing people with TK and laughing.

None of Dean’s struggles did anything, and he could only watch in horror as he stood over Mary, a surge of power beginning to rip her apart.

“I’m sorry,” he called out, but his voice was gone.

He noticed a strange chanting and whirled, finding Sam reciting Latin. The rage bubbling up was the demon’s, not Dean’s, but it felt the same.

“Don’t hurt him!” Dean snarled. The demon simply pushed Dean down deeper in to the darkness until his awareness was like watching a movie from far away.

He could see the demon approach Sam and grab his throat—Dean could do nothing

“I won’t kill you,” the demon said through Dean. “You’re far too important. Your destiny is waiting for you.”

Sam stared up at him. “Yeah? What’s my destiny?” he choked out.

The demon leaned close. Dean could see the way Sam’s pupils dilated with fear. “That would be telling,” it said sweetly. It rested Dean’s left hand against Sam’s bloody chest and power twisted down, pulling at Sam’s body. Sam arched, a scream ripping from his throat.

“Stop it!” Dean cried. “Please, don’t.” His words fell dully against his own thoughts, and the demon sent him a slew of other terrible memories that drowned him in the violence and blood. All the while, he could feel the twisted joy the demon was feeling, torturing Sam. It stopped for a moment, watching Sam gasp for breath.

“You’re destined to ruin the world,” the demon said. It gently ran Dean’s hand across the side of his face—Sam flinched. “I’ve placed my bets on you.”

“Why me?” There was something terrified and pained in his voice. “What’s wrong with me?”

“Who knows, kid.” The demon grinned. “Something inherently evil about you.”

The despair on Sam’s face made something angry and protective well up in Dean; for a second, the demon stumbled.

“Ooh, Dean didn’t like that,” it murmured. “Well, let’s just—“

The demon shuddered again, this time turning to see Mary, speaking in Latin. Dean struggled to rise out of the mire, but was shoved back by the demon, shown a memory of the demon raping a young girl.

“You bitch. I may not be able to kill Sam, but I can kill you,” It hissed. It moved forward, only to come to a sudden stop. Dean saw the devil’s trap under its feet and hope burned bright inside of him.

The demon stepped back towards Sam. “If you don’t stop I’ll break him,” it threatened.

“Don’t stop, Mom,” Sam shouted. “Keep going.”

The demon snarled, gripping Sam’s arm and twisting it violently. Sam screamed as his bone shattered, and Dean cried out inside his own body. Mary’s voice became louder, and Dean could hear the desperation in her voice.

The demon reached out again, hands encircling Sam’s throat. Dean stared helplessly at his little brother, feeling the rage that the demon felt—it would kill Sam.

“Dean,” Sam rasped. “It’s not your fault. Whatever happens.”

Only Sam would be able to focus on Dean in a situation like this. The same surge from before went through Dean, this time colored with love instead of anger—he could feel the demon’s hold on him slipping, and he managed to move his own mouth.

“Sam,” he choked out.

Something flickered in the corner of his eye. The demon looked up in time to see John, a terrible, furious specter that flew straight into Dean’s body, sending a powerful jolt of electricity through it.

Mary cried out a loud, “amen.” Something tore inside of Dean, the places where the demon had secreted itself ripped out. Dean collapsed against Sam, unintentionally putting pressure on Sam’s broken arm.

When Dean looked up, his dad was gone.

Sam whimpered, and Dean pulled off clumsily.

“Sorry, sorry,” he blurted out. His limbs felt strange, like they weren’t his own.

“Get Mom out,” Sam told him. “Please.”

Dean nodded, grabbing the keys left by Gordon on the table with the exorcism—torture—implements before moving over to the other side of the room and going to his knees.

“Is he alive?” Mary asked. There was blood dripping from her mouth.

“Yeah, Mom, he’ll be okay,” Dean whispered. He swallowed. “Sorry.”

As her wrists were freed, she lifted one hand. Dean flinched, expecting a blow, but she very softly gripped the side of his neck. “Nothing to be sorry for, kiddo.” She stood, shakily. “Let’s get Sam out of here before Gordon wakes up.”

Dean swallowed. “Got it.”


	16. Chapter 16

“You three look like drowned rats.” Bobby surveyed them. Mary shivered. Even running up the driveway had them soaked from the rain. “Well, get inside, you idjits.”

“Thanks, Bobby,” Mary murmured, passing him to get inside.

“Yeah, yeah, Mary. What’d y’all get into this time?”

“Hunters,” she said shortly. Her eyes were on her boys—Dean seemed skittish and painfully insecure, while Sam walked with the slow and unsteady gait of the wounded weary. They had managed to stop by a clinic, getting Sam’s arm casted and his chest stitched up, but Sam hadn’t gotten the comprehensive care he deserved. “Decided Sam was evil. Hurt him.”

Bobby swore soundly and hurried off, hopefully to get food and booze. Mary dropped onto the couch, and Sam settled down next to her.

“You okay, Mom?” he asked mutedly. His free hand gently covered the abraded flesh of her wrists. “We need to treat this.”

“I’ve had worse,” she murmured. She was just cognizant enough to see the look of loathing that passed over Sam’s face. “What?”

“You shouldn’t have to be used to this.“ Sam shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mom, I—.”

“Here’s the first aid.” Bobby set it down next to them. “I’ll make some soup.”

Mary tried to mumble thanks, but her head was already dropping down on Sam’s shoulder. Half-asleep, she watched as Sam carefully treated her wrists. “Not your fault,” she whispered.

Predictably, he ignored her comment. “Any internal damage?” he asked.

It took Mary a little while to think through what he was asking. “Mm, no.”

“You’re sure,” he demanded.

She nodded, her forehead rubbing against Sam’s jacket uncomfortably. “Just pain, nerves firing, not actual damage.”

“I’m holding you to that,” he murmured. His hand came up to cradle her face, and Mary kissed his palm thoughtlessly.

“Could’ve lost you,” she whispered. “Glad you’re okay.”

“Yeah, Mom, you too.”

She felt herself being manipulated so that she was lying on the couch. Mary lay in her stupor, letting thick weariness settle over her like a blanket—or maybe that was an actual blanket.

“Is she okay?” Dean’s voice was full of fear—fear that hadn’t left since before the demon was exorcised.

“She’ll be okay,” Sam responded. “She’s strong.”

There was silence, and Mary was curious about what they were doing, but too tired to pry her eyes open.

“I’m sorry.”

Mary didn’t even know how many times Dean had alreadyapologized. Apparently, she wasn’t the only one who had noticed, since Sam snorted loudly.

“Dude, you were possessed. It wasn’t your fault.”

Mary could imagine Dean’s grimace. “Wasn’t it? It went to me because I was scared. I’m not cut out for this, Sam, it’s been months already and I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“None of us do, y’know.” Mary heard the floor creak. “The thing about hunting is that the unnatural and unexpected is just day-to-day. If we think we know everything, we’ll get killed.”

“But you aren’t scared of it,” Dean said.

“I’m scared every single day.” Mary could hear Sam breathe out heavily. “I’m terrified every time we’re out on a hunt and I see Mom getting too far away from me. Or when you leave the safety left on your gun.”

Dean’s voice lost its fear for a moment and became indignant. “That was one time!”

Mary smiled to herself. Sam was good at distracting, she’d give him that.

“Yeah, well, I won’t ever let you forget it.” She heard rustling clothing. Mary cracked open one eye to see Sam embracing Dean. A pang of sentimentality went through Mary—there was something close and fragile building between her sons, and she prayed every day that it wouldn’t shatter.

She barely caught Sam’s whisper. “And I’m not afraid of you.”

She caught the stricken look on Dean’s face as Sam released him and walked away towards the kitchen. Mary closed her eyes again.

* * *

Dean stood stock still for a moment. He heard Sam and Bobby’s voices in the kitchen arguing about bacon, the normalcy of it ludicrous after what they had been through. He glanced over at Mary, asleep on the couch.

Slowly, he sank down on the edge of the couch, twisting his hands together.

“I don’t know what I’m doing, Mom,” he whispered. “Why did all of this happen? After what I did, Sam should hate me. Hell, you should hate me. I hate me.”

There was silence to his statement, and Dean heaved a sigh. “You’d probably be laughing at me if you were awake.”

“Yup,” Mary murmured. Dean jumped.

“Don’t do that,” he said, but the curve to his mother’s lips belied any promise he might be able to wrangle from her. “Are you okay?”

“I wasn’t the one possessed today.” Mary opened her eyes, the green of them washed out from fatigue. “How are you doing?”

Dean choked out something that was supposed to be a laugh. “I don’t even know.”

Mary’s calloused hand wrapped around his. “And that’s okay,” she said. “Give yourself time.”

“Thanks,” Dean whispered. He bit his lip. “And what I—I mean, what the demon said . . . about you being a bad mother, that was a lie, you know that, right?”

There was a moment where he saw the flash of grief in Mary’s eyes before it was hidden again. “Of course,” she said, obviously lying.

“Yeah.” Dean hesitated, and then leaned down, touching her forehead to hers. “Thank you for saving me.”

“Thankful enough to owe me a favor?”

The reply caught Dean by surprise, and he sat up, raising an eyebrow. “What? I mean, yeah, I’d do anything, but why?”

“Sam’s birthday. It’s in less than a week, now.”

It was so mundane . . . Dean started laughing, and couldn’t stop when it turned into sobs. Somehow he ended up slumped against the couch on the floor, tears streaming down his cheeks and Mary’s fingers combing through his hair.

“I never meant for it to happen,” he choked out. “I’m so scared, all the time, and I can’t—“

“Shhh.” Mom touched his cheek. “Let it out. You’re okay. You were brave, Dean, and I saw you keep the demon from killing Sam. I’m so proud of you.”

It took a few minutes for Dean to calm himself down. He felt gross—eyes swollen, snot running from his nose. “Ugh. I should . . . take a shower. Sorry.”

“S’okay.” Mary’s voice was rough with exhaustion. “You good?”

“Yeah, Mom, I’m good.” Dean levered himself off the ground, his body protesting as he stood upright. “And I’ll think about Sam’s birthday.”

“Good.” Mary’s eyes slid shut, though she looked like she was struggling to stay awake.

“Sleep,” Dean told her. He waited for a moment to see her obey before making his escape upstairs—he might never live it down if Sam saw him crying like a baby.

The shower was old and a little grimy, but it at least had hot water. Dean let the water run over him, pretending that he could feel it wash away the things he had done.

There was a knock on the door and Dean nearly fell over, scrambling against the wet tile.

“Dean, you want some food? Bobby made soup and grilled cheese. He was too lazy to go buy bacon for us though.”

Dean cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah, I’ll be right down.”

He dressed himself quickly, avoiding looking at his hands—they had been covered with Sam’s blood, and he couldn’t un-see that—before going down and into the kitchen.

“You doing okay, son?” Bobby asked, gruffly, like he wasn’t sure how to ask.

“Yeah, I’m good,” Dean said meaninglessly. “Thanks for the food.”

“Sure.”

The bowl was slid in front of him. Dean saw it—tomato soup, a little orange and lumpy looking—and then he saw a bowl of blood, drained from his last victim. He had dipped his fingers in it, painted his own face and laughed at the terrified child watching before snapping her pretty neck.

“Easy, Dean, easy.”

He was hunched over on the kitchen floor, vomiting, unable to stop.

“Breathe, Dean!” The authority in Sam’s voice made Dean listen, and he was finally able to shove himself away from the bile. “Dean. Don’t. Whatever you thought you saw, it wasn’t you.”

Dean blinked up at his brother. “He showed me. He hated so much, and it felt like I hated, and I killed, and—“

“You didn’t.” Sam’s calm hazel eyes met his own. “I swear, Dean, you didn’t.”

* * *

Dean kept flinching at the sight of Sam and Mary. Mary kept checking the perimeter for the hunters. Sam kept watching over his family. Bobby kept on . . . being Bobby.

There was always a recovery time. Sam knew this, and he adapted. Out of all of them, Dean seemed to be the one struggling the most.

Still, they were progressing, and things had finally calmed down enough that Sam had gone out to pick up pizza on his own; he expected to come back to find Dean sitting in the living room, staring blankly at the television while Mary tried to engage him in a game of cards.

Instead, the house was dark.

Terror shot through Sam so fast it left him lightheaded. He drew out his gun, taking two deep breaths so that his aim would be true, keeping his broken arm close to his chest. He opened the door, pressing back against the wall as soon as he was inside.

“Mom?” he called.

The lights were flicked on, and Sam wildly pointed his weapon towards the place where the switches were located.

“Surprise!”

The chorus nearly made Sam fire. Jo shrieked a little and ducked, while Mary and Bobby shouted out some kind of “okay, fine, don’t shoot,” combination.

“I could’ve killed one of you,” Sam gasped.

“I told you he would freak,” Jim said smugly.

He blinked, taking in the people in the room: the Harvelles, Pastor Jim, Bobby, Dean, and his mother smiling at him. “What on earth is going on?”

“Happy birthday, Sammy.” Dean’s broad grin could have lit up the room by itself.

“Did you think your mom would let you get away without celebrating?” Ellen asked drily.

“I had kinda hoped,” Sam muttered.

“Party pooper.” Jo socked him on the arm. “I owe you twenty more, now.”

Sam rubbed his arm. “Great.” He ruffled her hair, getting a shriek out of her as she tried to straighten out her curls.

“You mad at me?” Mom came up to him, tilting her head.

“Like I could ever be mad at you for long,” Sam sighed. “Did you really think a surprise was the best idea?”

His mother’s smile was pure mischief. “I couldn’t resist trying to do something normal for you.”

“Next time, make it normal like . . . um, balloons? That’ll work instead.” Sam couldn’t stop his own smile—he hugged his mom, kissing the top of her head. “Thanks anyway.”

“Cake,” Jo cried out.

Sam asked, “Chocolate?” and got an affirmative answer. He grinned.

They had gone all out for his birthday. He even got presents: a new knife from Jo, a book on Greek mythology from Bobby, a new crucifix from Jim, and some money from Ellen and Bill.

“Did you make the cake?” he asked his mom.

She raised her eyebrows at him. “Are you kidding? I left that up to Bill. That man can bake.”

“My specialty is any kind of cake,” he rumbled. “Though I’m better with coconut icing.”

Sam laughed.

A shotgun blasted outside. Sam immediately tensed, shifting his weight onto the balls of his feet, as did all of the other hunters in the room.

In a millisecond, the festive mood was gone, like it had never existed. Sam drew his weapon again, wincing as his cast bumped against the table. He glanced at his mom. “Were you expecting anyone else?” he asked.

She shook her head, drawing her own gun as well.

“You bring out Sam, and no one else gets hurt!” the voice carried through the open window, and Sam saw Dean blanch.

“Gordon,” he whispered.

Sam stood up, but he was pushed down by Bill. “We’ll take care of this, kid.”

The five other hunters stood and drew out their weapons. As one, they went out to stand on the porch, weapons held aloft while Sam hovered behind them.

“Gordon, you want to attack?” Bobby called. “Well, you can try us. But you ain’t taking this boy.”

“He’s evil!” Gordon shouted. “You’re protecting a demon.”

“Yeah, well, he’s ours,” Ellen snarled. “And you stay away from him, or you and yours will get burned.”

Sam waited, staring at his family and listening.

“You tell the Winchesters to watch their backs,” Gordon called, some kind of resentment in his voice. And then he was gone.

“What a creep,” Jo said cheerfully, coming back inside. Sam shook his head.

“Thank . . . thank you all,” he managed to say.

“You’d do the same for us,” Bill said. He tossed his arm over Ellen’s shoulder. “Plus, my wife here has made it her personal mission to get ten more pounds of flesh on those bones of yours.”

Ellen elbowed her husband in the side, and Sam laughed.

Eventually—after celebrating for a couple more hours and drinking a little too much—the hunters left, wishing Sam happy returns on their way out. Sam shook his head, collapsing on the couch.

“Our lives are weird,” he commented.

“More fun that way, right?” Dean’s smile was a little weak, but Sam noted that he looked a lot steadier.

“Long as we’ve got each other, everything will be okay,” Mary said.

“Mom, really? What a cliché saying,” Sam complained.

“You’re . . . cliché,” she shot back lamely.

“Long as we’re alive to say cliché, you guys can both be completely cliché as far as I’m concerned,” Dean said.

“Ugh, stop saying cliché,” Sam groaned.

“Your present!” His mother said, out of nowhere. She swiped Sam’s laptop from the coffee table and opened it, typing something in while Sam attempted to look over her shoulder. “Here.”

Pages of new research for Sam’s index on the supernatural met Sam’s eyes. He laughed in surprise and pleasure. “Wow, Mom, thanks, that’s amazing.”

“Oh, I know.” She preened a little.

Dean coughed. “I, uh, didn’t really have anything. But I asked Bobby, and he, um, well—“ He dropped a necklace into Sam’s lap. “It’s supposed to be for protection.”

Sam slung it on, looking down at the little amulet. “Thanks, man.” He glanced up at his brother. “You sure you don’t want it?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Like I’m the one who gets kidnapped on a regular basis.”

“He does have a point,” Mom interjected.

“Works for me.” Sam gripped the little bronze head, feeling the horns dig into his palm. He switched the conversation before things got awkward again. “I think we should eat more cake.”

“Not until you eat some vegetables,” his mom said.

“Ugh, Mooom.” Sam whined.

“You heard the lady.” Dean ruffled Sam’s hair. “Go eat your veggies.”

“You too, young man.”

Sam laughed outright at the offended look on Dean’s face.

Yeah, their lives were weird. But he wouldn’t have it any other way.


End file.
